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Kitchener's Mob 




JAMES NORMAN HALL 



Kitchener's Mob 

ft 
The Adventures of an American 
in the British Army 

By 
James Norman Hall 




Boston and New York 
Houghton Mifflin Company 

1916 






COPYRIGHT, I916, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPAmf 
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY JAMES NORMAN HALL 



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



Published May tqib 



MAY 22 1916 

g)CI.A433075 



TO 

TOMMY 

OF THE GREAT WAR 

WHO IS ADDING IMMORTAL LUSTER 

TO THE NAME OF 

ATKINS 



Note 

This brief narrative is by no means a com- 
plete record of life in a battalion of one of Lord 
Kitchener's first armies. It is, rather, a story 
in outline, a mere suggestion of that life as it is 
lived in the British lines along the western 
front. If those who read gain thereby a more 
intimate view of trench warfare, and of the 
men who are so gallantly and cheerfully laying 
down their lives for England, the purpose of 
the writer will have been accomplished. 

The diagram which appears on the front and 
rear covers of the book is a partially conven- 
tionalized design illustrating some features of 
trench construction mentioned in Chapter VL 
For obvious reasons it is not drawn to scale, 
and although it is a truthful representation of 
a typical segment of the British line, it is not 
an exact sketch of any existing sector. 

Jpril, 1916. 



Kitchener's Mob 

CHAPTER I 

JOINING UP 

"Kitchener's Mob" they were called in 
the early days of August, 1914, when London 
hoardings were clamorous with the first calls 
for volunteers. The seasoned regulars of the 
first British expeditionary force said it patron- 
izingly, the great British public hopefully, the 
world at large doubtfully. "Kitchener's Mob," 
when there was but a scant sixty thousand 
under arms with millions yet to come. "Kitch- 
ener's Mob" it remains to-day, fighting in 
hundreds of thousands in France, Belgium, 
Africa, the Balkans. And to-morrow, when the 
war is ended, who will come marching home 
again, old campaigners, war-worn remnants of 
once mighty armies? "Kitchener's Mob." 

It is not a pleasing name for the greatest vol- 
unteer army in the history of the world; for 
more than three millions of toughened, disci- 

I 



Kitchener's Mob 

plined fighting men, united under one flag, all 
parts of one magnificent military organization. 
And yet Kitchener's own Tommies are respon- 
sible for it, the rank and file, with their inherent 
love of ridicule even at their own expense, and 
their intense dislike of "swank." They fastened 
the name upon themselves, lest the world at 
large should think they regarded themselves too 
highly. There it hangs. There it will hang for 
all time. 

It was on the i8th of August, 1914, that the 
mob spirit gained its mastery over me. After 
three weeks of solitary tramping in the moun- 
tains of North Wales, I walked suddenly into 
news of the great war, and went at once to Lon- 
don, with a longing for home which seemed 
strong enough to carry me through the week of 
idleness until my boat should sail. But, in a 
spirit of adventure, I suppose, I tempted myself 
with the possibility of assuming the increasingly 
popular alias, Atkins. On two successive morn- 
ings I joined the long line of prospective recruits 
before the offices at Great Scotland Yard, with- 
drawing each time, after moving a convenient 
distance toward the desk of the recruiting ser- 



Joining Up 

geant. Disregarding the proven fatality of 
third times, I joined it on another morning, 
dangerously near to the head of the procession. 
; "Now, then, you! Step along!" 

There is something compelling about a mili- 
tary command, given by a military officer ac- 
customed to being obeyed. While the doctors 
were thumping me, measuring me, and making 
an inventory of "physical peculiarities, if any," 
I tried to analyze my unhesitating, almost in- 
stinctive reaction to that stern, confident " Step 
along!" Was it an act of weakness, a want of 
character, evidenced by my inability to say no? 
Or was it the blood of military forebears assert- 
ing itself after many years of inanition? The 
latter conclusion being the more pleasing, I de- 
cided that I was the grandson of my Civil War 
grandfather, and the worthy descendant of 
stalwart warriors of a yet earlier period. 

I was frank with the recruiting officers. I 
admitted, rather boasted, of my American citi- 
zenship, but expressed my entire willingness to 
serve in the British army in case this should not 
expatriate me. I had, in fact, delayed, hoping 
that an American legion would be formed in 

3 



Kitchener's Mob 

London as had been done in Paris. The an- 
nouncement was received with some surprise. 
A brief conference was held, during which there 
was much vigorous shaking of heads. While I 
awaited the decision I thought of the steamship 
ticket in my pocket. I remembered that my 
boat was to sail on Friday. I thought of my 
plans for the future and anticipated the joy of 
an early home-coming. Set against this was the 
prospect of an indefinite period of soldiering 
among strangers. "Three years or the duration 
of the war" were the terms of the enlistment 
contract. I had visions of bloody engagements, 
of feverish nights in hospital, of endless years 
in a home for disabled soldiers. The conference 
was over, and the recruiting officer returned to 
his desk, smiling broadly. 

"We'll take you, my lad, if you want to join. 
You'll just say you are an Englishman, won't 
you, as a matter of formality?" Here was an 
avenue of escape, beckoning me like an alluring 
country road winding over the hills of home. I 
refused it with the same instinctive swiftness of 
decision that had brought me to the medical 
inspection room. And a few moments later, I 

4 



Joining Up 

took "the King's shilling," and promised, upon 
my oath as a loyal British subject, to bear true 
allegiance to the Union Jack. 

During the completion of other, less impor- 
tant formalities, I was taken in charge by a ser- 
geant who might have stepped out of any of the 
"Barrack-Room Ballads." He was true to type 
to the last twist in the s of Atkins. He told me 
of service in India, Egypt, South Africa. He 
showed me both scars and medals with that air 
of " Now-I-would-n't-do-this-for-any-one-but- 
you" which is so flattering to the novice. He 
gave me advice as to my best method of pro- 
cedure when I should go to Hounslow Barracks 
to join my unit. 

"'An 'ere! Wotever you do an' wotever you 
s'y, don't forget to myke the lads think you're 
an out-an'-outer, if you understand my mean- 
ing, — a Britisher, you know. They'll tyke to 
you. Strike me blind! Be free an' easy with 
'em, — no swank, mind you! — an' they'll be 
downright pals with you. You're different, you 
know. But don't put on no airs. Wot I mean is, 
don't let 'em think that you think you're differ- 
ent. See wot I mean.?" 

5 



Kitchener's Mob 

I said that I did. 

"An' another thing; talk like 'em." 

I confessed that this might prove to be rather 
a large contract. 

"'Ard? S'yl 'Ere! If I 'ad you fer a d'y, I'd 
'ave you talkin' like a born Lunnoner! All you 
got to do is forget all them aitches. An' 
you don't want to s'y 'can't,' like that. S'y 
'cawrn't.'" 

I said it. 

"Now s'y, 'Gor blimy, 'Arry, 'ow 's the 
missus r 

I did. 

"That's right! Oh, you'll soon get the swing 
of it." 

There was much more instruction of the same 
nature. By the time I was ready to leave the 
recruiting offices I felt that I had made great 
progress in the vernacular. I said good-bye to 
the sergeant warmly. As I was about to leave 
he made the most peculiar and amusing gesture 
of a man drinking. 

"A pint o' mild an' bitter," he said confi- 
dentially. "The boys always gives me the price 
of a pint." 

6 



Joining Up 

"Right you are, sergeant!" I used the ex- 
pression like a born Englishman. And with the 
liberality of a true soldier, I gave him my shil- 
ling, my first day's wage as a British fighting 
man. 

The remainder of the week I spent mingling 
with the crowds of enlisted men at the Horse 
Guards Parade, watching the bulletin boards 
for the appearance of my name which would 
mean that I was to report at the regimental 
depot at Hounslow. My first impression of the 
men with whom I was to live for three years, or 
the duration of the war, was anything but fa- 
vorable. The newspapers had been asserting 
that the new army was being recruited from the 
flower of England's young manhood. The 
throng at the Horse Guards Parade resembled 
an army of the unemployed, and I thought it 
likely that most of them were misfits, out-of- 
works, the kind of men who join the army be- 
cause they can do nothing else. There were, in 
fact, a good many of these, I soon learned, 
however, that the general out-at-elbows ap- 
pearance was due to another cause. A genial 
Cockney gave me the hint. 

7 



Kitchener's Mob 

"'Ave you joined up, matey?" he asked. 

I told him that I had. 

"Well, 'ere's a friendly tip for you. Don't 
wear them good clo'es w'en you goes to the 
depot. You won't see 'em again likely, an' if 
you gets through the war you might be a-want- 
in' of 'em. Wear the worst rags you got." 

I profited by the advice, and when I fell in, 
with the other recruits for the Royal Fusiliers, 
I felt much more at my ease. 



CHAPTER II 

ROOKIES 

"A MOB " IS genuinely descriptive of the array 
of would-be soldiers which crowded the long 
parade-ground at Hounslow Barracks during 
that memorable last week in August. We 
herded together like so many sheep. We had 
lost our individuality, and it was to be months 
before we regained it in a new aspect, a collec- 
tive individuality of which we became increas- 
ingly proud. We squeak-squawked across the 
barrack square in boots which felt large enough 
for an entire family of feet. Our khaki service 
dress uniforms were strange and uncomfortable. 
Our hands hung limply along the seams of our 
pocketless trousers. Having no place in which 
to conceal them, and nothing for them to do, we 
tried to ignore them. Many a Tommy, in a 
moment of forgetfulness, would make a dive for 
the friendly pockets which were no longer there. 
The look of sheepish disappointment, as his 
hands slid limply down his trouser-legs, was 
most comical to see. Before many days we 

9 



Kitchener's Mob 

learned the uses to which soldiers' hands are 
put. But for the moment they seemed ab- 
surdly unnecessary. 

We must have been unpromising material 
from the military point of view. That was evi- 
dently the opinion of my own platoon sergeant. 
I remember, word for word, his address of wel- 
come, one of soldier-like brevity and pointed- 
ness, delivered while we stood awkwardly at 
attention on the barrack square. 

"Lissen 'ere, you men ! I 've never saw such a 
raw, roun'-shouldered batch o' rookies in fifteen 
years' service. Yer pasty-faced an' yer thin- 
chested. Gawd 'elp 'Is Majesty if it ever lays 
with you to save 'im! 'Owever, we're 'ere to do 
wot we can with wot we got. Now, then, upon 
the command, *Form Fours,' I wanna see the 
even numbers tyke a pace to the rear with the 
left foot, an' one to the right with the right 
foot. Like so: 'One-one-two!' Platoon! Form 
Fours! Oh! Orful! Orful! As y' were! As y' 
were!" 

If there was doubt in the minds of any of us 
as to our rawness, it was quickly dispelled by 
our platoon sergeants, regulars of long standing, 

10 



Rookies 

who had been left in England to assist in whip- 
ping the new armies into shape. Naturally, 
they were disgruntled at this, and we offered 
them such splendid opportunities for working 
off overcharges of spleen. We had come to 
Hounslow, believing that, within a few weeks' 
time, we should be fighting in France, side by 
side with the men of the first British expedi- 
tionary force. Lord Kitchener had said that 
six months of training, at the least, was essen- 
tial. This statement we regarded as intention- 
ally misleading. Lord Kitchener was too shrewd 
a soldier to announce his plans; but England 
needed men badly, immediately. After a week 
of training, we should be proficient in the use 
of our rifles. In addition to this, all that was 
needed was the ability to form fours and march, 
in column of route, to the station where we 
should entrain for Folkestone or Southampton, 
and France. 

As soon as the battalion was up to strength, 
we were given a day of preliminary drill before 
proceeding to our future training area in Essex. 
It was a disillusioning experience. Equally dis- 
appointing was the undignified display of our 

II 



Kitchener's Mob 

little skill, at Charing Cross Station, where we 
performed before a large and amused London 
audience. For my own part, I could scarcely 
wait until we were safely hidden within the 
train. During the journey to Colchester, a re- 
enlisted Boer War veteran, from the inaccessi- 
ble heights of South African experience, en- 
filaded us with a fire of sarcastic comment. . 

" I 'm a-go'n' to transfer out o' this 'ere mob, 
that's wot I'm a go'n' to do! Soldiers! S'y! 
I '11 bet a quid they ain't a one of you ever saw 
a rifle before! Soldiers? Strike me pink! Wot's 
Lord Kitchener a-doin' of, that's wot I want 
to know!" 

The rest of us smoked in wrathful silence, 
until one of the boys demonstrated to the Boer 
War veteran that he knew, at least, how to use 
his fists. There was some bloodshed, followed 
by reluctant apologies on the part of the Boer 
warrior. It was one of innumerable differences 
of opinion which I witnessed during the months 
that followed. And most of them were settled 
in the same decisive way. 

Although mine was a London regiment, we 
had men in the ranks from all parts of the 

12 



Rookies 

United Kingdom. There were North-Country- 
men, a few Welsh, Scotch, and Irish, men from 
the Midlands and from the south of England. 
But for the most part we were Cockneys, born 
within the sound of Bow Bells. I had planned 
to follow the friendly advice of the recruiting 
sergeant. "Talk like 'em," he had said. There- 
fore, I struggled bravely with the peculiarities 
of the Cockney twang, recklessly dropped 
aitches when I should have kept them, and 
prefixed them indiscriminately before every 
convenient aspirate. But all my efforts were 
useless. The imposition was apparent to my 
fellow Tommies immediately. I had only to 
begin speaking, within the hearing of a genuine 
Cockney, when he would say, "'EUo! w'ere do 
you come from? The Stites?" or, "I'll bet a 
tanner you're a Yank!" I decided to make a 
confession, and I have been glad, ever since, 
that I did. The boys gave me a warm and 
hearty welcome when they learned that I was 
a sure-enough American. They called me 
"Jamie the Yank." I was a piece of tangible 
evidence of the bond of sympathy existing be- 
tween the two great English-speaking nations. 

13 



Kitchener's Mob 

I told them of the many Americans of German 
extraction, whose sympathies were honestly 
and sincerely on the other side. But they would 
not have it so. I was the personal representa- 
tive of the American people. My presence in 
the British army was proof positive of this. 

Being an American, it was very hard, at 
first, to understand the class distinctions of 
British army life. And ^having understood 
them, it was more difficult yet to endure them. 
I learned that a ranker, or private soldier, is 
a socially inferior being from the officer's point 
of view. The officer class and the ranker class 
are east and west, and never the twain shall 
meet, except in their respective places upon the 
parade-ground. This does not hold good, to 
the same extent, upon active service. Hard- 
ships and dangers, shared in common, tend to 
break down artificial barriers. But even then, 
although there was good-will and friendliness 
between officers and men, I saw nothing of 
genuine comradeship. This seemed to me a 
great pity. It was a loss for the officers fully 
as much as it was for the men. 

I had to accept, for convenience sake, the 

14 



Rookies 

fact of my social inferiority. Centuries of 
army tradition demanded it; and I discovered 
that it is absolutely futile for one inconsequen- 
tial American to rebel against the unshakable 
fortress of English tradition. Nearly all of my 
comrades were used to clear-cut class distinc- 
tions in civilian life. It made little difference 
to them that some of our officers were recruits 
as raw as were we ourselves. They had money 
enough and education enough and influence 
enough to secure the king's commission; and 
that fact was proof enough for Tommy that 
they were gentlemen, and, therefore, too good 
for the likes of him to be associating with. 

"Look 'ere! Ain't a gentleman a gentleman? 
I'm arskin' you, ain't 'e?" 

I saw the futility of discussing this question 
with Tommy. And later, I realized how import- 
ant for British army discipline such distinctions 
are. 

So great is the force of prevailing opinion 
that I sometimes found myself accepting 
Tommy's point of view. I wondered if I was, 
for some eugenic reason, the inferior of these 
men whom I had to "Sir" and salute whenever 

15 



Kitchener's Mob 

I dared speak. Such lapses were only occa- 
sional. But I understood, for the first time, 
how important a part circumstance and en- 
vironment play in shaping one's mental atti- 
tude. How I longed, at times, to chat with 
colonels and to joke with captains on terms of 
equality! Whenever I confided these aspira- 
tions to Tommy he gazed at me in awe. 

"Don't be a bloomin' ijut! They could jolly 
well 'ang you fer that!" 



CHAPTER III 

THE MOB IN TRAINING 

The Nth Service Battalion, Royal Fusiliers, 
on the march was a sight not easily to be 
forgotten. To the inhabitants of Colchester, 
Folkestone, Shorncliffe, Aldershot, and other 
towns and villages throughout the south of 
England, we were well known. We displayed 
ourselves with what must have seemed to them 
a shameless disregard for appearances. Our 
approach was announced by a discordant tu- 
mult of fifes and drums, for our band, of which 
later, we became justly proud, was a newly 
fledged and still imperfect organization. Win- 
dows were flung up and doors thrown open 
along our line of march; but alas, we were 
greeted with no welcome glances of kindly ap- 
proval, no waving of handkerchiefs, no clap- 
ping of hands. Nursemaids, who are said to 
have a nice and discriminating eye for soldiery, 
gazed in amused and contemptuous silence as 
we passed. Children looked at us in wide-eyed 
wonder. Only the dumb beasts were demon- 

17 



Kitchener's Mob 

strative, and they in a manner which was not 
at all to our liking. Dogs barked, and sedate 
old family horses, which would stand placidly 
at the curbing while fire engines thundered 
past with bells clanging and sirens shrieking, 
pricked up their ears at our approach, and, 
after one startled glance, galloped madly away 
and disappeared in clouds of dust far in the 
distance. 

We knew why the nursemaids were cool, and 
why family horses developed hysteria with 
such startling suddenness. But in our pride 
we did not see that which we did not wish to 
see. Therefore we marched, or, to be more 
truthful, shambled on, shouting lusty choruses 
with an air of boisterous gayety which was 
anything but genuine. 

"You do as I do and you'll do ^ight,^ 
Fall in and follow me I" 

was a favorite with number 12 platoon. Their 
enthusiasm might have carried conviction had 
it not been for their personal appearance, which 
certainly did not. Number 15 platoon would 
strive manfully for a hearing with' 

18 



The Mob in Training 

"Steadily, shoulder to shoulder, 
Steadily, blade by blade; 
Marching along, 
Sturdy and strong, 
Like the boys of the old brigade." 



As a Strictly accurate historian I must confess 
that none of these assertions were quite true. 
We marched neither steadily, nor shoulder to 
shoulder, nor blade by blade. We straggled all 
over the road, and kept step only when the 
sergeant major doubled forward, warning us, 
with threats of extra drills, to keep in our fours 
or to "pick it up!" In fact, "the boys of the 
old brigade," whoever they may have been, 
would have scornfully repudiated the sugges- 
tion that we resembled them in any respect. ; 
They would have been justified in doing so 
had any of them seen us at the end of six weeks 
of training. For, however reluctantly, we were 
forced to admit that Sergeant Harris was right 
when he called us "a raw batch o' rookies." 
Unpromising we were not. There was good 
stuff in the ranks, the material from which 
real soldiers are made, and were made; but it 
had not yet been rounded into shape. We were 

19 



Kitchener's Mob 

still nothing more than a homogeneous assem- 
bly of individuals. 

We declined to accept the responsibility for 
the seeming slowness of our progress. We 
threw it unhesitatingly upon the War Office, 
which had not equipped us in a manner befit- 
ting our new station in life. Although we were 
recruited immediately after the outbreak of 
war, less than half of our number had been pro- 
vided with uniforms. Many still wore their old 
civilian clothing. Others were dressed in can- 
vas fatigue suits, or the worn-out uniforms of 
policemen and tramcar conductors. Every old- 
clothes shop on Petticoat Lane must have con- 
tributed its allotment of cast-off apparel. 

Our arms and equipment were of an equally 
nondescript character. We might easily have 
been mistaken for a mob of vagrants which 
had pillaged a seventeenth-century arsenal. 
With a few slight changes in costuming for the 
sake of historical fidelity, we would have served 
as a citizen army for a realistic motion-picture 
drama depicting an episode in the French 
Revolution. 

We derived what comfort we could from the 

20 



The Mob in Training 

knowledge that we were but one of many bat- 
talions of Kitchener's first hundred thousand 
equipped in this same makeshift fashion. We 
did not need the repeated assurances of cabinet 
ministers that England was not prepared for 
war. We were in a position to know that she 
was not. Otherwise, there had been an unpar- 
donable lack of foresight in high places. Sup- 
plies came in driblets. Each night, when pa- 
rades for the day were over, there was a rush 
for the orderly room bulletin board, which was 
scanned eagerly for news of an early issue of 
clothing. As likely as not we were disappointed, 
but occasionally jaded hopes revived. 

"Number 15 platoon will parade at 4 p.m. 
on Thursday, the 24th, for boots, puttees, 
braces, and service dress caps." 

, Number 15 is our platoon. Promptly at the 
hour set we halt and right-turn in front of the 
Quartermaster Stores marquee. The quarter- 
master is there with pencil and notebook, 
and immediately takes charge of the proceed- 
ings. 

"All men needing boots, one pace step for- 
ward, March!" 

21 



Kitchener's Mob 

The platoon, sLxty-five strong, steps forward 
as one man. 

"All men needing braces, one pace step back, 
March!" 

Again we move as a unit. The quartermaster 
hesitates for a moment; but he is a resourceful 
man and has been through this many times 
before. We all need boots, quite right ! But the 
question is, Who need them most? Undoubt- 
edly those whose feet are most in evidence 
through worn soles and tattered uppers. Adopt- 
ing this sight test, he eliminates more than half 
the platoon, whereupon, by a further process 
of elimination, due to the fact that he has only 
sizes 7 and 8, he selects the fortunate twelve 
who are to walk dry shod. 

The same method of procedure is carried out 
in selecting the braces. Private Reynolds, 
whose trousers are held in place by a wonderful 
mechanism composed of shoe-laces and bits of 
string, receives a pair; likewise. Private Stene- 
bras, who, with the aid of safety pins, has 
fashioned coat and trousers into an ingenious 
one-piece garment. Caps and puttees are dis- 
tributed with like impartiality, and we dismiss, 

22 



The Mob in Training 

the unfortunate ones growling and grumbling 
in discreet undertones until the platoon com- 
mander is out of hearing, whereupon the 
murmurs of discontent become loudly articu- 
late. 

"Kitchener's Rag-Time Army I calls it!" 
growls the veteran of South African fame. 
"Ain't we a 'andsome lot o' pozzie wallopers? 
Service? We ain't never a-go'n' to see service! 
You blokes won't, but watch me! I'm a-go'n' 
to grease off out o' this mob!" 

No one remonstrated with this deservedly 
unpopular reservist when he grumbled about 
the shortage of supplies. He voiced the general 
sentiment. We all felt that we would like to 
"grease off" out of it. Our deficiencies in 
clothing and equipment were met by the Gov- 
ernment with what seemed to us amazing slow- 
ness. However, Tommy is a sensible man. 
He realized that England had a big contract to 
fulfill, and that the first duty was to provide 
for the armies in the field. France, Russia, 
Belgium, all were looking to England for sup- 
plies. Kitchener's Mob must wait, trusting to 
the genius for organization, the faculty for get- 

23 



Kitchener's Mob 

ting things done, of its great and worthy chief, 
K. of K. 

Our housing accommodations, throughout 
the autumn and winter of 19 14-15, when Eng- 
land was in such urgent need of shelter for 
her rapidly increasing armies, were also of the 
makeshift order. We slept in leaky tents or in 
hastily constructed wooden shelters, many of 
which were afterward condemned by the medi- 
cal inspectors. St. Martin's Plain, Shorncliffe, 
was an ideal camping-site for pleasant summer 
weather. But when the autumnal rains set in, 
the green pasture land became a quagmire. 
Mud was the great reality of our lives, the 
malignant deity which we fell down (in) and 
propitiated with profane rites. It was a thin, 
watery mud or a thick, viscous mud, as the 
steady downpour increased or diminished. Late 
in November we were moved to a city of 
wooden huts at Sandling Junction, to make 
room for newly recruited units. The dwellings 
were but half- finished, the drains were open 
ditches, and the rains descended and the floods 
came as usual. We lived an amphibious and 

H 



The Mob in Training 

wretched existence until January, when, to our 
great joy, we were transferred to billets in the 
Metropole, one of Folkestone's most fashion- 
able hotels. To be sure, we slept on bare floors, 
but the roof was rainproof, which was the es- 
sential thing. The aesthetically inclined could 
lie in their blankets at night, gazing at richly 
gilded mirrors over the mantelpieces and beau- 
tifully frescoed ceilings refurnishing our apart- 
ments in all their former splendor. Private 
Henry Morgan was not of this type. Henry 
came in one evening rather the worse for liquor 
and with clubbed musket assaulted his un- 
lovely reflection in an expensive mirror. I be- 
lieve he is still paying for his lack of restraint 
at the rate of a sixpence per day, and will have 
canceled his obligation by January, 1921, if 
the war continues until that time. 

Although we were poorly equipped and some- 
times wretchedly housed, the commissariat was 
excellent and on the most generous scale from 
the very beginning. Indeed, there was nearly 
as much food wasted as eaten. Naturally, the 
men made no complaint, although they re- 

25 



Kitchener's Mob 

gretted seeing such quantities of food thrown 
daily into the refuse barrels. I often felt that 
something should be done about it. Many 
exposes were, in fact, written from all parts of 
England. It was irritating to read of German 
efficiency in the presence of England's extrava- 
gant and unbusinesslike methods. Tommy 
would say, "Lor, lummy! Ain't we got no 
pigs in England? That there food won't be 
wasted. We '11 be eatin' it in sausages w'en we 
goes acrost the Channel"; whereupon he dis- 
missed the whole question from his mind. This 
seemed to me then the typical Anglo-Saxon 
attitude. Everywhere there was waste, mud- 
dle-headedness, and apparently it was nobody's 
business, nobody's concern. Camps were sited 
in the wrong places and buildings erected only 
to be condemned. Tons of food were pur- 
chased overseas, transported across thousands 
of miles of ocean, only to be thrown into refuse 
barrels. The Government was robbed by avari- 
cious hotel-keepers who made and were granted 
absurd claims for damages done to their prop- 
erty by billeted troops. But with vast new 
armies, recruited overnight, it is not strange 

26 



The Mob in Training 

that there should be mismanagement and fric- 
tion at first. As the months passed,' there was 
a marked change for the better. British effi- 
ciency asserted itself. This was made evident 
to us in scores of ways — the distribution of 
supplies, the housing and equipping of troops, 
their movements from one training area to 
another. At the last, we could only marvel that 
a great and complicated military machine had 
been so admirably and quickly perfected. 

Meanwhile our rigorous training continued 
from week to week in all weathers, even the most 
inclement. Reveille sounded at daybreak. For 
an hour before breakfast we did Swedish drill, 
a system of gymnastics which brought every 
lazy and disused muscle into play. Two hours 
daily were given to musketry practice. We 
were instructed in the description and recogni- 
tion of targets, the use of cover, but chiefly in 
the use of our rifles. Through constant hand- 
ling they became a part of us, a third arm 
which we grew to use quite instinctively. We 
fired the recruit's, and later, the trained sol- 
dier's course in musketry on the rifle ranges at 

27 



Kitchener's Mob 

Hythe and Aldershot, gradually improving our 
technique, until we were able to fire with some 
accuracy, fifteen rounds per minute. When we 
had achieved this difiicult feat, we ceased to be 
recruits. We were skilled soldiers of the proud 
and illustrious order known as "England's 
Mad-Minute Men." After musketry practice, 
the remainder of the day was given to extended 
order, company, and battalion drill. Twice 
weekly we route-marched from ten to fifteen 
miles; and at night, after the parades for the 
day were finished, boxing and wrestling con- 
tests, arranged and encouraged by our ofiicers, 
kept the red blood pounding through our bodies 
until "lights out" sounded at nine o'clock. 

The character of our training changed as we 
progressed. We were done with squad, platoon, 
and company drill. Then came field maneuvers, 
attacks in open formation upon intrenched po- 
sitions, finishing always with terrific bayonet 
charges. There were mimic battles, lasting all 
day, with from ten to twenty thousand men 
on each side. Artillery, infantry, cavalry, air 
craft — every branch of army service, in fact — 
had a share in these exciting field days when we 

28 



The Mob in Training 

gained bloodless victories or died painless and 
easy deaths at the command of red-capped field 
judges. We rushed boldly to the charge, shout- 
ing lustily, each man striving to be first at the 
enemy's position, only to be intercepted by a 
staff officer on horseback, staying the tide of 
battle with uplifted hand. 

"March your men back, officer! You're out 
of action! My word! You've made a beastly 
mess of it! You're not on church parade, you 
know! You advanced across the open for three 
quarters of a mile in close column of platoons! 
Three batteries of field artillery and four ma- 
chine guns have blown you to blazes! You 
have n't a man left!" 

Sometimes we reached our objective with 
less fearful slaughter, but at the moment when 
there should have been the sharp clash and 
clang of steel on steel, the cries and groans of 
men fighting for their lives, we heard the bugles 
from far and near, sounding the "stand by," 
and friend and enemy dropped wearily to the 
ground for a rest while our ofiicers assembled in 
conference around the motor of the divisional 
general. 

29 



Kitchener's Mob 

All this was playing at war, and Tommy was 
"fed up" with play. As we marched back to 
barracks after a long day of monotonous field 
maneuvers, he eased his mind by making sar- 
castic comments upon this inconclusive kind 
of warfare. He began to doubt the good faith 
of the War Office in calling ours a "service" 
battalion. As likely as not we were for home 
defense and would never be sent abroad. 

**Left! Right! Left! Right! 
Why did I join the army? 
Oh! Why did I ever join Kitchener's Mob? 
Lor lummy! I must 'ave been balmy!" — 

became the favorite, homeward-bound march- 
ing song. And so he "groused" and grumbled 
after the manner of Tommies the world over. 
And in the mean time he was daily approaching 
more nearly the standard of efficiency set by 
England's inexorable War Lord. 

It was interesting to note the physical im- 
provement in the men wrought by a life of 
healthy, well-ordered routine. My battalion 
was recruited largely from what is known in 
England as "the lower middle classes." There 

30 



The Mob in Training 

were shop assistants, clerks, railway and city 
employees, tradesmen, and a generous sprink- 
ling of common laborers. Many of them had 
been used to indoor life, practically all of them 
to city life, and needed months of the hardest 
kind of training before they could be made 
physically fit, before they could be seasoned 
and toughened to withstand the hardships of 
active service. 

Plenty of hard work in the open air brought 
great and welcome changes. The men talked of 
their food, anticipated it with a zest which 
came from realizing, for the first time, the joy 
of being genuinely hungry. They watched 
their muscles harden with the satisfaction 
known to every normal man when he is be- 
coming physically efficient. Food, exercise, and 
rest, taken in wholesome quantities and at 
regular intervals, were having the usual excel- 
lent results. For my own part, I had never 
before been in such splendid health. I wished 
that it might at all times be possible for de- 
mocracies to exercise a beneficent paternalism 
over the lives of their citizenry, at least in 
matters of health. It seems a great pity that 

31 



Kitchener's Mob 

the principle of personal freedom should be 
responsible for so many ill-shaped and ill-sorted 
physical incompetents. My fellow Tommies 
were living, really living, for the first time. 
They had never before known what it means 
to be radiantly, buoyantly healthy. 

There were, as well, more profound and 
subtle changes in thoughts and habits. The 
restraints of discipline and the very exacting 
character of military life and training gave 
them self-control, mental alertness. At the 
beginning, they were individuals, no more co- 
hesive than so many grains of wet sand. After 
nine months of training they acted as a unit, 
obeying orders with that instinctive prompt- 
ness of action which is so essential on the field 
of battle when men think scarcely at all. But 
it is true that what was their gain as soldiers 
was, to a certain extent, their loss as individuals. 
When we went on active service I noted that 
men who were excellent followers were not in- 
frequently lost when called upon for inde- 
pendent action. They had not been trained to 
take the initiative, and had become so accus- 
tomed to having their thinking done for them 

32 



The Mob in Training 

that they often became confused and excited 
when they had to do it for themselves. 

DiscipHne was an all-important factor in the 
daily grind. At the beginning of their training, 
the men of the new armies were gently dealt 
with. Allowances were made for civilian frail- 
ties and shortcomings. But as they adapted 
themselves to changed conditions, restrictions 
became increasingly severe. Old privileges dis- 
appeared one by one. Individual liberty be- 
came a thing of the past. The men resented 
this bitterly for a time. Fierce hatreds of ofScers 
and N.C.O.s were engendered and there was 
much talk of revenge when we should get to 
the front. I used to look forward with misgiv- 
ing to that day. It seemed probable that one 
night in the trenches would suffice for a whole- 
sale slaughtering of officers. Old scores were 
to be paid off, old grudges wiped out with our 
first issue of ball ammunition. Many a fist- 
banged board at the wet canteen gave proof of 
Tommy's earnestness. 

"Shoot 'im?" he would say, rattling the beer 
glasses the whole length of the table with a 
mighty blow of his fist. "Blimy! Wite! That's 

33 



Kitchener's Mob 

all you got to do! Just wite till we get on the 
other side!" 

But all these threats were forgotten months 
before the time came for carrying them out. 
Once Tommy understood the reasonableness of 
severe discipline, he took his punishment for 
his oiTenses without complaint. He realized, 
too, the futility of kicking against the pricks. 
In the army he belonged to the Government 
body and soul. He might resent its treatment 
of him. He might behave like a sulky school- 
boy, disobey order after order, and break rule 
after rule. In that case he found himself check- 
mated at every turn. Punishment became more 
and more severe. No one was at all concerned 
about his grievances. He might become an 
habitual offender from sheer stupidity, but in 
doing so, he injured no one but himself. 

A few of these incorrigibles were discharged 
in disgrace. A few followed the lead of the 
Boer warrior. After many threats which we 
despaired of his ever carrying out, he finally 
"greased off." He was immediately posted as 
a deserter, but to our great joy was never 
captured. With the disappearance of the mal- 

34 



The Mob in Training 

contents and incorrigibles the battalion soon 
reached a high grade of efficiency. The phys- 
ical incompetents were likewise ruthlessly 
weec' out. All of us had passed a fairly 
thr gh examination at the recruiting offices; 
buL ...any had physical defects which were dis- 
covered only by the test of actual training. In 
the early days of the war, requirements were 
much more severe than later, when England 
learned how great would be the need for men. 
Many, who later reenlisted in other regiments, 
were discharged as "physically unfit for further 
military service." 

If the standard of conduct in my battalion 
is any criterion, then I can say truthfully that 
there is very little crime in Lord Kitchener's 
armies either in England or abroad. The 
"jankers" or defaulters' squad was always 
rather large; but the "jankers men" were 
offenders against minor points in discipline. 
Their crimes were untidy appearance on pa- 
rade, inattention in the ranks, tardiness at roll- 
call, and others of the sort, all within the juris- 
diction of a company officer. The punishment 
meted out varied according to the seriousness 

35 



Kitchener's Mob 

of the offense, and the past-conduct record of 
the offender. It usually consisted of from one to 
ten days, "C.B." — confined to barracks. Dur- 
ing the period of his sentence the offender was 
forbidden to leave camp after the parades for 
the day were ended. And in order that he 
might have no opportunity to do so, he was 
compelled to answer his name at the guard- 
room whenever it should be sounded. 

Only twice in England did we have a general 
court-martial, the offense in each case being 
assault by a private upon an N.C.O., and the 
penalty awarded, three months in the military 
prison at Aldershot. Tommy was quiet and 
law-abiding in England, his chief lapses being 
due to an exaggerated estimate of his capacity 
for beer. In France, his conduct, in so far as my 
observation goes, has been splendid throughout. 
During six months in the trenches I saw but two 
instances of drunkenness. Although I witnessed 
nearly everything which took place in my 
own battalion, and heard the general gossip of 
many others, never did I see or hear of a woman 
treated otherwise than courteously. Neither did 
I see or hear of any instances of looting or 

36 



The Mob in Training 

petty pilfering from the civilian inhabitants. 
It is true that the men had fewer opportunities 
for misconduct, and they were fighting in a 
friendly country. Even so, active service as we 
found it was by no means free from tempta- 
tions. The admirable restraint of most of the 
men in the face of them was a fine thing to see. 

Frequent changes were made in methods of 
training in England, to correspond with chang- 
ing conditions of modern warfare as exemplified 
in the trenches. Textbooks on military tactics 
and strategy, which were the inspired gospel of 
the last generation of soldiers, became obso- 
lete overnight. Experience gained in Indian 
Mutiny wars or on the veldt in South Africa 
was of little value in the trenches in Flanders. 
The emphasis shifted from open fighting to 
trench warfare, and the textbook which our 
officers studied was a typewritten serial issued 
semiweekly by the War Office, and which was 
based on the dearly bought experience of officers 
at the front. 

We spent many a starry night on the hills 
above Folkestone digging trenches and building 
dug-outs according to General Staff instruc-j 

37 



Kitchener's Mob 

tions, and many a rainy one we came home, 
covered with mud, but happy in the thought 
that we were approximating, as nearly as could 
be, the experience of the boys at the front. 
Bomb-throwing squads were formed, and the 
best shots in the battalion, the men who had 
made marksmen's scores on the rifle ranges, 
were given daily instruction in the important 
business of sniping. More generous provision 
for the training of machine-gun teams was 
made, but so great was the lack in England of 
these important weapons, that for many weeks 
we drilled with wooden substitutes, gaining 
such knowledge of machine gunnery as we 
could from the study of our M.G. manuals. 

These new duties, coming as an addition to 
our other work, meant an increased period of 
training. We were impatient to be at the 
front, but we realized by this time that Lord 
Kitchener was serious in his demand that the 
men of the new armies be efficiently trained. 
Therefore we worked with a will, and at last, 
after nine months of monotonous toil, the order 
came. We were to proceed on active service. 



CHAPTER IV 

ORDERED ABROAD 

One Sunday morning in May we assembled 
on the barrack square at Aldershot for the last 
time. Every man was in full marching order. 
His rifle was the " Short Lee Enfield, Mark IV,'' 
his bayonet, the long single-edged blade in gen- 
eral use throughout the British Army. In addi- 
tion to his arms he carried 120 rounds of " .303 " 
caliber ammunition, an intrenching-tool, water- 
bottle, haversack, containing both emergency 
and the day's rations, and his pack, strapped 
to shoulders and waist in such a way that the 
weight of it was equally distributed. His pack 
contained the following articles: A greatcoat, 
a woolen shirt, two or three pairs of socks, a 
change of underclothing, a "housewife," — the 
soldiers' sewing-kit, — a towel, a cake of soap, 
and a "hold-all," in which were a knife, fork, 
spoon, razor, shaving-brush, toothbrush, and 
comb. All of these were useful and sometimes 
essential articles, particularly the toothbrush, 

39 



Kitchener's Mob 

which Tommy regarded as the best little instru- 
ment for cleaning the mechanism of a rifle ever 
invented. Strapped on top of the pack was the 
blanket roll wrapped in a waterproof ground 
sheet; and hanging beneath it, the canteen in 
its khaki-cloth cover. Each man wore an iden- 
tification disk on a cord about his neck. It was 
stamped with his name, regimental number, 
regiment, and religion. A first-aid field dressing, 
consisting of an antiseptic gauze pad and band- 
age and a small vial of iodine, sewn in the lining 
of his tunic, completed the equipment. 

Physically, the men were "in the pink," as 
Tommy says. They were clear-eyed, vigorous, 
alert, and as hard as nails. With their caps on, 
they looked the well-trained soldiers which they 
were; but with caps removed, they resembled so 
many uniformed convicts less the prison pallor. 
"Oversea haircuts" were the last tonsorial cry, 
and for several days previous to our departure, 
the army hairdressers had been busily wielding 
the close-cutting clippers. 

Each of us had received a copy of Lord 
Kitchener's letter to the troops ordered abroad, 
a brief, soldierlike statement of the standard 

40 



Ordered Abroad 

of conduct which England expected of her 
fighting men : — 

You are ordered abroad as a soldier of the 
King to help our French comrades against the 
invasion of a common enemy. You have to per- 
form a task which will need your courage, your 
energy, your patience. Remember that the 
honor of the British Army depends upon your 
individual conduct. It will be your duty not 
only to set an example of discipline and perfect 
steadiness under fire, but also to maintain the 
most friendly relations with those whom you 
are helping in this struggle. The operations in 
which you are engaged will, for the most part, 
take place in a friendly country, and you can do 
your own country no better service than in 
showing yourself, in France and Belgium, in 
the true character of a British soldier. 

Be invariably courteous, considerate, and 
kind. Never do anything likely to injure or 
destroy property, and always look upon looting 
as a disgraceful act. You are sure to meet with 
a welcome and to be trusted; and your conduct 
must justify that welcome and that trust. Your 

41 



Kitchener's Mob 

duty cannot be done unless your health is sound. 
So keep constantly on your guard against any 
excesses. In this new experience you may find 
temptations both in wine and women. You 
must entirely resist both temptations, and 
while treating all women with perfect courtesy, 
you should avoid any intimacy. 

Do your duty bravely. 

Fear God. 

Honor the King. 

Kitchener, 
Field-Marshal, 

It was an effective appeal and a constant re- 
minder to the men of the glorious traditions of 
the British Army. In the months that followed, 
I had opportunity to learn how deep and last- 
ing was the impression made upon them by 
Lord Kitchener's first, and I believe his only, 
letter to his soldiers. 

The machinery for moving troops in England 
works without the slightest friction. The men, 
transport, horses, commissariat, medical stores, 
and supplies of a battalion are entrained in less 
than half an hour. Everything is tuned to the 

42 



Ordered Abroad 

minute. Battalion after battalion and train 
after train, we moved out of Aldershot at half- 
hour intervals. Each train arrived at the port 
of embarkation on schedule time and pulled up 
on the docks by the side of a troop transport, 
great slate-colored liners taken out of the mer- 
chant service. Not a moment was lost. The 
last man was aboard and the last wagon on the 
crane swinging up over the ship's side as the 
next train came in. 

Ship by ship we moved down the harbor in 
the twilight, the boys crowding the rail on both 
sides, taking their farewell look at England — 
home. It was the last farewell for many of them, 
but there was no martial music, no waving of 
flags, no tearful good-byes. Our farewell was as 
prosaic as our long period of training had been. 
We were each one a very small part of a tre- 
mendous business organization which works 
without any of the display considered so essen- 
tial in the old days. 

We left England without a cheer. There was 
not so much as a wave of the hand from the 
wharf; for there was no one on the wharf to 
wave, with the exception of a few dock laborers, 

43 



Kitchener's Mob 

and they had seen too many soldiers off to 
the front to be sentimental about it. It was a 
tense moment for the men, but trust Tommy 
to relieve a tense situation. As we steamed 
away from the landing slip, we passed a barge, 
loaded to the water's edge with coal. Tommy 
has a song pat to every occasion. He enjoys, 
above all things, giving a ludicrous twist to a 
"weepy" ballad. When we were within hailing 
distance of the coal barge, he began singing one 
of this variety, "Keep the Home Fires Burn- 
ing," to those smutty-faced barge hands. Every 
one joined in heartily, forgetting all about the 
solemnity of the leave-taking. 

Tommy is a prosaic chap. This was never 
more apparent to me than upon that pleasant 
evening in May when we said good-bye to Eng- 
land. The lights of home were twinkling their 
farewells far in the distance. Every moment 
brought us nearer to the great adventure. We 
were "off to the wars," to take our places in the 
far-flung battle line. Here was Romance lav- 
ishly offering gifts dearest to the hearts of 
Youth, offering them to clerks, barbers, trades- 
men, drapers' assistants, men who had never 

44 



Ordered Abroad 

known an adventure more thrilling than a holi- 
day excursion to the Isle of Man or a week of 
cycling in Kent. And they accepted them with 
all the stolidity native to Englishmen. The 
eyes of the world were upon them. They had 
become the knights-errant of every schoolgirl. 
They were figures of heroic proportions to every 
one but themselves. 

French soldiers are conscious of the roman- 
tic possibilities offered them by the so-called 
"divine accident of war." They go forth to 
fight for Glorious France, France the Uncon- 
querable! Tommy shoulders his rifle and de- 
parts for the four corners of the world on a 
"bloomin' fine little 'oliday!" A railway jour- 
ney and a sea voyage in one! "Blimy! Not 
'arf bad, wot?" Perhaps he is stirred at the 
thought of fighting for "England, Home, and 
Beauty." Perhaps he does thrill inwardly, re- 
membering a sweetheart left behind. But he 
keeps it jolly well to himself. He has read me 
many of his letters home, some of them written 
during an engagement which will figure promi- 
nently in the history of the great World War. 
"Well, I can't think of anything more now," 

45 



Kitchener's Mob 

threads its way through a meager page of com- 
monplaces about the weather, his food, and his 
personal health. A frugal line of cross-marks for 
kisses, at the bottom of the page, is his only- 
concession to sentiment. 

There was, however, one burst of enthusiasm, 
as we started on our journey, which struck me 
as being spontaneous, and splendid, and thor- 
oughly English. Outside the harbor we were 
met by our guardians, a fleet of destroyers 
which was to give us safe convoy across the 
Channel. The moment they saw them the men 
broke forth into prolonged cheering, and there 
were glad shouts of — 

"There they are, me lads! There's some o' 
the little old watch dogs wot's keepin' 'em 
bottled up!" 

"Good old navy! That's w'ere we got 'em 
by the throat!" 

"Let's give 'em 'Sons of the Sea!'" 

And they did. They sang with a spirit of 
exaltation which Englishmen rarely betray, 
and which convinced me how nearly the sea 
and England's position as Mistress of the Seas 
touch the Englishman's heart of hearts. 

46 



Ordered Abroad 

"Sons of the sea, 
All British born, 
Sailing the ocean. 
Laughing foes to scorn. 
They may build their ships, my lads, 
And think they know the game; ' 
But they can't beat the boys of the bulldog 

breed 
Who made old England's name!" 

It was a confession of faith. On the sea 
England can't be beaten. Tommy believes that 
with his whole soul, and on this occasion he 
sang with all the warmth of religious conviction. 

Our Channel voyage was uneventful. Each 
transport was guarded by two destroyers, one 
on either side, the three vessels keeping abreast 
and about fifty yards apart during the entire 
journey. The submarine menace was then at 
its height, and we were prepared for an emer- 
gency. The boats were swung ready for imme- 
diate launching, and all of the men were pro- 
vided with life-preservers. But England had 
been transporting troops and supplies to the 
firing-line for so many months without accident 
that none of us were at all concerned about the 
possibility of danger. Furthermore, the men 

47 



Kitchener's Mob 

were too busy studying "Tommy Atkins's 
French Manual" to think about submarines. 
They were putting the final polish on their 
accent in preparation for to-morrow's landing. 

"Alf, 'ow's this: 'Madamaselly, avay vu dee 
pangr 

"Wot do you s'y for 'Gimme a tuppenny 
packet o' Nosegay'?" 

"^Bonjoor, Monseer!' That ain't so dusty, 
Freddie, wot?" 

"Let's try that Marcelase again. You start 
It, 'Arry." 

"Let Nobby. 'E knows the sounds better 'n 
wot I do." 

" 'It 'er up, Nobby! We gotta learn that so 
we can sing it on the march." 

"Wite till I find it in me book. All right 

now — 

Allons infants dee la Pat-ree, ' 
La joor de glory is arrivay." 

Such bits of conversation may be of little 
interest, but they have the merit of being gen- 
uine. All of them were jotted down in my note- 
book at the times when I heard them. 

The following day we crowded into the typi- 

48 



Ordered Abroad 

cal French army troop train, eight chevaux or 
forty hommes to a car, and started on a leisurely 
journey to the firing-line. We traveled all day, 
at eight or ten miles an hour, through Nor- 
mandy. We passed through pleasant towns 
and villages lying silent in the afternoon sun- 
shine, and seemingly almost deserted, and 
through the open country fragrant with the 
scent of apple blossoms. Now and then chil- 
dren waved to us from a cottage window, and 
in the fields old men and women and girls 
leaned silently on their hoes or their rakes and 
watched us pass. Occasionally an old reservist, 
guarding the railway line, would lift his cap and 
shout, "Vive I'Angleterre!" But more often he 
would lean on his rifle and smile, nodding his 
head courteously but silently to our saluta- 
tions. Tommy, for all his stolid, dogged cheeri- 
ness, sensed the tragedy of France. It was a 
land swept bare of all its fine young manhood. 
There was no pleasant stir and bustle of civilian 
life. Those who were left went about their work 
silently and joylessly. When we asked of the 
men, we received, always, the same quiet, cour- 
teous reply: "A la guerre, monsieur." 

49 



Kitchener's Mob 

The boys soon learned the meaning of the 
phrase, "a la guerre." It became a war-cry, a 
slogan. It was shouted back and forth from car 
to car and from train to train. You can imag- 
ine how eager we all were; how we strained our 
ears, whenever the train stopped, for the sound 
of the guns. But not until the following morn- 
ing, when we reached the little village at the 
end of our railway journey, did we hear them, 
a low muttering like the sound of thunder be- 
yond the horizon. How we cheered at the first 
faint sound which was to become so deafening, 
so terrible to us later! It was music to us then; 
for we were like the others who had gone that 
way. We knew nothing of war. We thought 
It must be something adventurous and fine. 
Something to make the blood leap and the 
heart sing. We marched through the village 
and down the poplar-lined road, surprised, 
almost disappointed, to see the neat, well-kept 
houses, and the pleasant, level fields, green with 
spring crops. We had expected that everything 
would be in ruins. At this stage of the journey, 
however, we were still some twenty-five miles 
from the firing-line. 

SO 



Ordered Abroad 

During all the journey from the coast, we 
had seen, on every side, evidences of that won- 
derfully organized branch of the British mili- 
tary system, the Army Service Corps. From 
the village at which we detrained, everything 
was English. Long lines of motor transport 
lorries were parked along the sides of the roads. 
There were great ammunition bases, commis- 
sariat supply depots, motor repair shops, wheel- 
wright and blacksmith shops, where one saw 
none but khaki-clad soldiers engaged in all the 
noncombatant business essential to the main- 
tenance of large armies. There were long lines 
of transport wagons loaded with supplies, trav- 
eling field-kitchens, with chimneys smoking 
and kettles steaming as they bumped over the 
cobbled roads, water carts. Red Cross carts, 
motor ambulances, batteries of artillery, Lon- 
don omnibuses, painted slate gray, filled with 
troops, seemingly endless columns of infantry 
on foot, all moving with us, along parallel roads, 
toward the firing-line. And most of these 
troops and supply columns belonged to my own 
division, one small cog in the British fighting 
machine, 

51 



Kitchener's Mob 

We advanced toward the war zone in easy 
stages. It was intensely hot, and the rough, 
cobbled roads greatly increased the difficulty of 
marching. In England we had frequently 
tramped from fifteen to twenty-five miles in a 
day without fatigue. But the roads there were 
excellent, and the climate moist and cool. 
Upon our first day's march in France, a journey 
of only nine miles, scores of men were overcome 
by the heat, and several died. The suffering of 
the men was so great, in fact, that a halt was 
made earlier than had been planned, and we 
bivouacked for the night in the fields. 

Life with a battalion on the march proceeds 
with the same orderly routine as when in bar- 
racks. Every man has his own particular em- 
ployment. Within a few moments, the level 
pasture land was converted into a busy com- 
munity of a thousand inhabitants. We made 
serviceable little dwellings by lacing together 
two or three waterproof ground-sheets and 
erecting them on sticks or tying them to the 
wires of the fences. Latrines and refuse pits 
were dug under the supervision of the battalion 
medical officer. The sick were cared for and 

52 



Ordered Abroad 

justice dispensed with the same thoroughness 
as in England. The day's offenders against 
discipHne were punished with what seemed to 
us unusual severity. But we were now on 
active service, and offenses which were trivial 
in England were looked upon, for this reason, 
in the light of serious crimes. 

Daily we approached a little nearer to our 
goal, sleeping, at night, in the open fields or in 
the lofts of great rambling farm-buildings. Most 
of these places had been used for soldiers' bil- 
lets scores of times before. The walls were 
covered with the names of men and regiments, 
and there were many penciled suggestions as 
to the best place to go for a basin of " coffay oh 
lay," as Tommy called it. Every roadside cot- 
tage was, in fact. Tommy's tavern. The thrifty 
French peasant women kept open house for 
soldiers. They served us with delicious coffee 
and thick slices of French bread, for the very 
reasonable sum of twopence. They were always 
friendly and hospitable, and the men, in turn, 
treated them with courteous and kindly respect. 
Tommy was a great favorite with the French 
children. They climbed on his lap and rifled his 

53 



Kitchener's Mob 

pockets; and they delighted him by talking in 
his own vernacular, for they were quick to pick 
up English words and phrases. They sang 
^'Tipperary" and "Rule Britannia," and "God 
Save the King," so quaintly and prettily that 
the men kept them at it for hours at a time. 

And so, during a week of stifling heat, we 
moved slowly forward. The sound of the guns 
grew in intensity, from a faint rumbling to a 
subdued roar, until one evening, sitting in the 
open windows of a stable loft, we saw the far- 
off lightenings of bursting shells, and the trench 
rockets soaring skyward; and we heard bursts 
of rifle and machine-gun fire, very faintly, like 
the sound of chestnuts popping in an oven. 



CHAPTER V 

THE PARAPET-ETIC SCHOOL 

"We're going in to-night." 

The word was given out by the orderly ser- 
geants at four in the afternoon. At 4.03 every 
one in camp had heard the news. Scores of 
miniature hand laundries, which were doing a 
thriving business down by the duck pond, im- 
mediately shut up shop. Damp and doubtfully 
clean ration bags, towels, and shirts which were 
draped along the fences, were hastily gathered 
together and thrust into the capacious depths 
of pack-sacks. Members of the battalion's sport- 
ing contingent broke up their games of tup- 
penny brag without waiting for "just one more 
hand," an unprecedented thing. The makers of 
war ballads, who were shouting choruses to the 
merry music of the mouth-organ band, stopped 
in the midst of their latest composition, and 
rushed off to get their marching order together. 
At 4.10 every one, with the exception of the 
officers' servants, was ready to move off. This, 
too, was unprecedented. Never before had we 

55 



Kitchener's Mob 

made haste more gladly or less needfully, but 
never before had there been such an incentive 
to haste. We were going into the trenches for 
the first time. 

The officers' servants, commonly called "bat- 
men," were unfortunate rankers who, in mo- 
ments of weakness, had sold themselves into 
slavery for half a crown per week. The bat- 
man's duty is to make tea for his officer, clean 
his boots, wash his clothes, tuck him into bed 
at night, and make himself useful generally. 
The real test of a good batman, however, is his 
carrying capacity. In addition to his own heavy 
burden he must carry various articles belonging 
to his oflScer: enameled wash-basins, rubber 
boots, bottles of Apollinaris water, service edi- 
tions of the modern English poets and novelists, 
spirit lamps, packages of food, boxes of cigars 
and cigarettes, — in fact, all of his personal 
luggage which is in excess of the allotted thirty- 
five pounds which is carried on the battalion 
transport wagons. 

On this epoch-marking day, even the oflScers' 
servants were punctual. When the order. 
Packs on ! Fall in ! " was given, not a man was 

S6 



« 



The Parapet-etic School 

missing. Every one was in harness, standing 
silently, expectantly, in his place. 

"Charge magazines!" 

The bolts clicked open with the sound of one 
as we loaded our rifles with ball ammunition. 
Five long shiny cartridges were slipped down 
the charger guide into the magazine, and the 
cut-off closed. 

"Move off in column of route, 'A' company 
leading!" 

We swung into the country road in the gather- 
ing twilight, and turned sharply to our left at 
the crossroad where the signboard read, "To 
the Firing-Line. For the Use of the Military 
Only." 

Coming into the trenches for the first time 
when the deadlock along the western front had 
become seemingly unbreakable, we reaped the 
benefit of the experience of the gallant little 
remnant of the first British Expeditionary 
Force. After the retreat from Mons, they had 
dug themselves in and were holding tenaciously 
on, awaiting the long-heralded arrival of 
Kitchener's Mob. As the units of the new. 
armies arrived in France, they were sent into 

57 



Kitchener's Mob 

the trenches for twenty-four hours' instruction 
in trench warfare, with a battaUon of regulars. 
This one-day course in trench fighting is pre- 
Hminary to fitting new troops into their own 
particular sectors along the front. The face- 
tious subalterns called it "The Parapet-etic 
School." Months later, we ourselves became 
members of the faculty, but on this first occa- 
sion we were marching up as the meekest of 
undergraduates. 

It was quite dark when we entered the deso- 
late belt of country known as the "fire zone." 
Pipes and cigarettes were put out and talking 
ceased. We extended to groups of platoons in 
fours, at one hundred paces interval, each 
platoon keeping in touch with the one in front 
by means of connecting files. We passed rows 
of ruined cottages where only the scent of the 
roses in neglected little front gardens reminded 
one of the home-loving people who had lived 
there in happier days. Dim lights streamed 
through chinks and crannies in the walls. Now 
and then blanket coverings would be lifted from 
apertures that had been windows or doors, and 
we would see bright fires blazing in the middle 

58 



The Parapet-etic School 

of brick kitchen floors, and groups of men sit- 
ting about them luxuriously sipping tea from 
steaming canteens. They were laughing and 
talking and singing songs in loud, boisterous 
voices which contrasted strangely with our 
timid noiselessness. I was marching with one 
of the trench guides who had been sent back 
to pilot us to our position. I asked him if the 
Tommies in the houses were not in danger of 
being heard by the enemy. He laughed up- 
roariously at this, whereupon one of our ofiicers, 
a little second lieutenant, turned and hissed in 
melodramatic undertones, "Silence in the ranks 
there! Where do you think you are!" Officers 
and men, we were new to the game then, and 
we held rather exaggerated notions as to the 
amount of care to be observed in moving up to 
the trenches. 

Blimy, son!" whispered the trench guide, 
you might think we was only a couple o' 
'unnerd yards away from Fritzie's trenches! 
We're a good two an' a 'arf miles back 'ere. 
All right to be careful arter you gets closer up; 
but they 's no use w'isperin' w'en you ain't even 
in rifle range." 

59 






Kitchener's Mob 

With lights, of course, it was a different mat- 
ter altogether. Can't be too careful about giv- 
ing the enemy artillery an aiming mark. This 
was the reason all the doors and windows of the 
ruined cottages were so carefully blanketed. 

" Let old Fritzie see a light, — ' 'Ello ! ' 'e says, 
* blokes in billets!' an' over comes a 'arf-dozen 
shells knockin' you all to blazes." 

As we came within the range of rifle fire, we 
again changed our formation, and marched in 
single file along the edge of the road. The sharp 
crack! crack! of small arms now sounded with 
vicious and ominous distinctness. We heard 
the melancholy song of the ricochets and spent 
bullets as they whirled in a wide arc, high over 
our heads, and occasionally the less pleasing 
phtt! phtt! of those speeding straight from the 
muzzle of a German rifle. We breathed more 
freely when we entered the communication 
trench in the center of a little thicket, a mile or 
more back of the first-line trenches. 

We wound in and out of what appeared in the 
darkness to be a hopeless labyrinth of earth- 
works. Cross-streets and alleys led off in every 
direction. All along the way we had glimpses 

60 



The Parapet-etic School 

of dugouts lighted by candles, the doorways 
carefully concealed with blankets or pieces of 
old sacking. Groups of Tommies, in comfort- 
able nooks and corners, were boiling tea or fry- 
ing bacon over little stoves made of old Iron 
buckets or biscuit tins. 

I marveled at the skill of our trench guide 
who went confidently on in the darkness, with 
scarcely a pause. At length, after a winding, 
zigzag journey, we arrived at our trench where 
we met the Gloucesters. 

There is n't one of us who has n't a warm 
spot in his heart for the Gloucesters : they wel- 
comed us so heartily and initiated us into all 
the mysteries of trench etiquette and trench 
tradition. We were, at best, but amateur Tom- 
mies. In them I recognized the lineal descend- 
ants of the line Atkins; men whose grandfathers 
had fought in the Crimea, and whose fathers in 
Indian mutinies. They were the fighting sons 
of fighting sires, and they taught us more of 
life in the trenches, in twenty-four hours, than 
we had learned during nine months of training 
in England. An infantryman of my company 
has a very kindly feeling toward one of them 

6i 



Kitchener's Mob 

who probably saved his life before we had been 
in the trenches five minutes. Our first question 
was, of course, "How far is it to the German 
Hnes?" and in his eagerness to see, my fellow 
Tommy jumped up on the firing-bench for a 
look, with a lighted cigarette in his mouth. He 
was pulled down into the trench just as a rifle 
cracked and a bullet went zing-g-g from the 
parapet precisely where he had been stand- 
ing. Then the Gloucester gave him a friendly 
little lecture which none of us afterward for- 
got. 

"Now, look 'ere, son! Never get up for a 
squint at Fritz with a fag on! 'E's got every 
sandbag along this parapet numbered, same as 
we've got 'is. 'Is snipers is a-layin' fer us same 
as ours is a-layin' fer 'im." Then, turning to 
the rest of us, "Now, we ain't arskin' to 'ave 
no burial parties. But if any of you blokes 
wants to be the stiff, stand up w'ere this guy 
lit the gas." 

There were n't any takers, and a moment 
later another bullet struck a sandbag in the 
same spot. 

"See? 'E spotted you. 'E'll keep a-pottin' 

62 



The Parapet-etic School 

away at that place for an hour, 'opin' to catch 
you lookin' over again. Less see if we can find 
'im. Give us that biscuit tin, 'Enery." 

Then we learned the biscuit-tin-finder trick 
for locating snipers. It's only approximate, 
of course, but it gives a pretty good hint at the 
direction from which the shots come. It does n't 
work in the daytime, for a sniper is too clever 
to fire at it. But a biscuit tin, set on the parapet 
at night in a badly sniped position, is almost 
certain to be hit. The angle from which the 
shots come is shown by the jagged edges of tin 
around the bullet holes. Then, as the Gloucester 
said, "Give 'im a nice little April shower out o' 
yer machine gun in that direction. You may 
fetch 'im. But if you don't, 'e won't bother you 
no more fer an hour or two." 

We learned how orders are passed down th@ 
line, from sentry to sentry, quietly, and with 
the speed of a man running. We learned how 
the sentries are posted and their duties. We 
saw the intricate mazes of telephone wires, and 
the men of the signaling corps at their posts in 
the trenches, in communication with brigade, 
divisional, and army corps headquarters. We 

63 



Kitchener's Mob 

learned how to "sleep" five men in a four-by- 
six dugout; and, when there are no dugouts, 
how to hunch up on the firing-benches with our 
waterproof sheets over our heads, and doze, 
with our knees for a pillow. We learned the 
order of precedence for troops in the communi- 
cation trenches. 

"Never forget that! Outgoin' troops 'as the 
right o' way. They ain't 'ad no rest, an' they're 
all slathered in mud, likely, an' dead beat fer 
sleep. Incomin' troops is fresh, an' they stands 
to one side to let the others pass." 

We saw the listening patrols go out at night, 
through the underground passage which leads 
to the far side of the barbed-wire entangle- 
ments. From there they creep far out between 
the opposing lines of trenches, to keep watch 
upon the movements of the enemy, and to 
report the presence of his working parties or 
patrols. This is dangerous, nerve-trying work, 
for the men sent out upon it are exposed not 
only to the shots of the enemy, but to the wild 
shots of their own comrades as well. I saw one 
patrol come in just before dawn. One of the 
men brought with him a piece of barbed wire, 

64 



The Parapet-etic School 

clipped from the German entanglements two 
hundred and fifty yards away. 

"Taffy, 'ave a look at this 'ere. Three-ply 
stuff wot you can 'ardly get yer nippers through. 
'Ad to saw an' saw, an' w'en I all but 'ad it, 
lummy! if they did n't send up a rocket wot 
bleedin' near 'it me in the 'ead!" 

"Tyke it to Captain Stevens. I 'card 'im s'y 
'e's wantin' a bit to show to one of the artill'ry 
blokes. 'E's got a bet on with 'im that it's 
three-ply wire. Now, don't forget, Bobby! 
Touch 'im fer a couple o' packets o' fags!" 

I was tremendously interested. At that time 
it seemed incredible to me that men crawled 
over to the German lines in this manner and 
clipped pieces of German wire for souvenirs. 

"Did you hear anything?" I asked him. 

" 'Eard a flute some Fritzie was a-playin' of. 
An' you ought to 'ave 'eard 'em a-singin'I 
Doleful as 'ell!" 

Several men were killed and wounded during 
the night. One of them was a sentry with whom 
I had been talking only a few moments before. 
He was standing on the firing-bench looking out 
into the darkness, when he fell back into the 

6s 



Kitchener's Mob 

trench without a cry. It was a terrible wound. 
I would not have believed that a bullet could 
so horribly disfigure one. He was given first 
aid by the light of a candle; but it was useless. 
Silently his comrades removed his identifica- 
tion disk and wrapped him in a blanket. "Poor 
old Walt!" they said. An hour later he was 
buried in a shell hole at the back of the trench. 
One thing we learned during our first night 
in the trenches was of the very first importance. 
And that was, respect for our enemies. We 
came from England full of absurd newspaper 
tales about the German soldier's inferiority as 
a fighting man. We had read that he was a 
wretched marksman : he would not stand up to 
the bayonet : whenever opportunity offered he 
crept over and gave himself up : he was poorly 
fed and clothed and was so weary of the war 
that his officers had to drive him to fight, at the 
muzzles of their revolvers. We thought him 
almost beneath contempt. We were convinced 
in a night that we had greatly underestimated 
his abilities as a marksman. As for his all-round 
inferiority as a fighting man, one of the 
Gloucesters put it rather well : — 

66 



The Parapet-etic School 

" 'Ere ! If the Germans is so bloomin' rotten, 
*ow is it we ain't a-iightin' 'em sommers along 
the Rhine, or in Austry-Hungry? No, they 
ain't a-firin' wild, I give you my word! Not 
around this part o' France they ain't! Wot do 
you s'y, Jerry?" 

Jerry made a most illuminating contribution 
to the discussion of Fritz as a fighting man : — • 

"I '11 tell you wot! If ever I gets through this 
'ere war; if I 'as the luck to go 'ome again, with 
me eyesight, I'll never feel syfe w'en I sees a 
Fritzie, unless I 'm a-lookin' at 'im through me 
periscope from be'ind a bit o' cover." 

How am I to give a really vivid picture of 
trench life as I saw it for the first time, how 
make it live for others, when I remember that 
the many descriptive accounts I had read of it 
in England did not in the least visualize it for 
me? I watched the rockets rising from the 
German lines, watched them burst into points 
of light, over the devastated strip of country 
called "No-Man's-Land" and drift slowly 
down. And I watched the charitable shadows 
rush back like the very wind of darkness. The 

67 



Kitchener's Mob ' 

desolate landscape emerged from the gloom 
and receded again, like a series of pictures 
thrown upon a screen. All of this was so new, 
so terrible, I doubted its reality. Indeed, I 
doubted my own identity, as one does at times 
when brought face to face with some experiences 
which cannot be compared with past experiences 
or even measured by them. I groped darkly, 
for some new truth which was flickering just 
beyond the border of consciousness. But I was 
so blinded by the glamour of the adventure that 
it did not come to me then. Later I understood. 
It was my first glimmering realization of the 
tremendous sadness, the awful futility of war. 



CHAPTER VI 

PRIVATE HOLLOWAY, PROFESSOR OF HYGIENE 

The following morning we wandered through 
the trenches listening to the learned discourse 
of the genial professors of the Parapet-etic 
School, storing up much useful information 
for future reference. I made a serious blunder 
when I asked one of them a question about 
Ypres, for I pronounced the name French 
fashion, which put me under suspicion as a 
"swanker." 

"Don't try to come it, son," he said. "S'y 
* Wipers.' That's wot we calls it." 

Henceforth it was "Wipers" for me, although 
I learned that "Eeps" and "Yipps" are sanc- 
tioned by some trench authorities. I made no 
further mistakes of this nature, and by keep- 
ing silent about the names of the towns and 
villages along our front, I soon learned the ac- 
cepted pronunciation of all of them. Armen- 
tieres is called "Armenteers"; Balleul, "Bally- 
all"; Hazebrouck, "Hazy-Brook"; and what 

69 



Kitchener's Mob 

more natural than "Plug-Street," Atkinsese 
for Ploegsteert? 

As was the case wherever I went, my accent 
betrayed my American birth; and again, as an 
American Expeditionary Force of one, I was 
shown many favors. Private Shorty Holloway, 
upon learning that I was a "Yank," offered to 
tell me "every bloomin' thing about the 
trenches that a bloke needs to know." I was 
only too glad to place myself under his in- 
struction. 

"Right you are!" said Shorty; "now, sit 
down 'ere w'ile I'm goin' over me shirt, an' 
arsk me anything yer a mind to." I began im- 
mediately by asking him what he meant by 
"going over" his shirt. 

"Blimy! You are new to this game, mate! 
You mean to s'y you ain't got any graybacks!" 

I confessed shamefacedly that I had not. He 
stripped to the waist, turned his shirt wrong 
side out, and laid it upon his knee. 
. " 'Ave a look," he said proudly. 

The less said about my discoveries the better 
for the fastidiously minded. Suffice it to say 
that I made my first acquaintance with mem- 

70 



Private Holloway 

bers of a British Expeditionary Force which is 
not mentioned in official communiques, 

"Trench pets," said Shorty. Then he told 
me that they were not all graybacks. There is 
a great variety of species, but they all belong to 
the same parasitical family, and wage a non-dis- 
criminating warfare upon the soldiery on both 
sides of No-man's-Land. Germans, British, 
French, Belgians alike were their victims, 

"You'll soon 'ave plenty," he said reassur- 
ingly; "I give you about a week to get covered 
with 'em. Now, wot you want to do is this; 
always 'ave an extra shirt in yer pack. Don't 
be a bloomin' ass an' sell it fer a packet o' fags 
like I did ! An' the next time you writes to Eng- 
land, get some one to send you out some Keat- 
ings" — he displayed a box of grayish-colored 
powder. "It won't kill 'em, mind you! They 
ain't nothin' but fire that'll kill 'em. But 
Keatings tykes all the ginger out o' 'em. They 
ain't near so lively arter you strafe 'em with 
this 'ere powder." 

I remembered Shorty's advice later when I 
became a reluctant host to a prolific colony of 
graybacks. For nearly six months I was never 

71 



Kitchener's Mob 

without a box of Keatings, and I was never 
without the need for it. 

Barbed wire had a new and terrible signifi- 
cance for me from the first day which we spent 
in the trenches. I could more readily under- 
stand why there had been so long a deadlock on 
the western front. The entanglements in front 
of the first line of trenches were from fifteen to 
twenty yards wide,, the wires being twisted 
from post to post in such a hopeless jumble that 
no man could possibly get through them under 
fire. The posts were set firmly in the ground, 
but there were movable segments, every fifty 
or sixty yards, which could be put to one side 
in case an attack was to be launched against 
the German lines. 

At certain positions there were what ap- 
peared to be openings through the wire, but 
these were nothing less than man-traps which 
have been found serviceable in case of an enemy 
attack. In an assault men follow the line of 
least resistance when they reach the barbed 
wire. These apparent openings are V-shaped, 
with the open end toward the enemy. The 
attacking troops think they see a clear passage- 

72 



Private Holloway 

way. They rush into the trap, and when it is 
filled with struggling men, machine guns are 
turned upon them, and, as Shorty said, "You 
got 'em cold." 

That, at least, was the presumption. Prac- 
tically, man-traps were not always a success. 
The intensive bombardments which precede in- 
fantry attacks play havoc with entanglements, 
but there is always a chance of the destruc- 
tion being incomplete, as upon one occasion 
farther north, where. Shorty told me, a man- 
trap caught a whole platoon of Germans "dead 
to rights." 

But this is wot gives you the pip," he said. 

'Ere we got three lines of trenches, all of 'em 
wired up so that a rat could n't get through 
without scratchin' hisself to death. Fritzie's 
got better wire than wot we 'ave, an' more of it. 
An' 'e's got more machine guns, more artill'ry, 
more shells. They ain't any little old man- 
killer ever invented wot they 'ave n't got more 
of than we 'ave. An' at 'ome they're a-s'yin', 
'W'y don't they get on with it? W'y don't 
they smash through?' Let some of 'em come 
out 'ere an' 'ave a try! That's all I got to s'y." 

73 






Kitchener's Mob 

I did n't tell Shorty that I had been, not ex- 
actly an armchair critic, but at least a barrack- 
room critic in England. I had wondered why 
British and French troops had failed to smash 
through. A few weeks in the trenches gave me 
a new viewpoint. I could only wonder at the 
magnificent fighting qualities of soldiers who 
had held their own so effectively against armies 
equipped and armed and munitioned as the 
Germans were. 

After he had finished drugging his trench 
pets, Shorty and I made a tour of the trenches. 
I was much surprised at seeing how clean and 
comfortable they can be kept in pleasant sum- 
mer weather. Men were busily at work sweep- 
ing up the walks, collecting the rubbish, which 
was put into sandbags hung on pegs at intervals 
along the fire trench. At night the refuse was 
taken back of the trenches and buried. Most 
of this work devolved upon the pioneers whose 
business it was to keep the trenches sanitary. 

The fire trench was built in much the same 
way as those which we had made during our 
training in England. In pattern it was some- 
thing like a tesselated border. For the space of 

74 



Private Holloway 

five yards it ran straight, then it turned at right 
angles around a traverse of solid earth six feet 
square, then straight again for another five 
yards, then around another traverse, and so 
throughout the length of the line. Each five- 
yard segment, which is called a "bay," offered 
firing room for five men. The traverses, of 
course, were for the purpose of preventing en- 
filade fire. They also limited the execution which 
might be done by one shell. Even so they were 
not an unmixed blessing, for they were always 
in the way when you wanted to get anywhere 
in a hurry. 

"An' you are in a 'urry w'en you sees a Min- 
nie [Minnenzverfer] comin' your w'y. But you 
gets trench legs arter a w'ile. It'll be a funny 
sight to see blokes walkin' along the street in 
Lunnon w'en the war's over. They'll be so 
used to dodgin' in an' out o' traverses they 
won't be able to go in a straight line." 

As we walked through the firing-line trenches, 
I could quite understand the possibility of 
one's acquiring trench legs. Five paces for- 
ward, two to the right, two to the left, two to 
the left again, then five to the right, and so on 

75 



Kitchener's Mob 

to Switzerland. Shorty was of the opinion that 
one could enter the trenches on the Channel 
coast and walk through to the Alps without 
once coming out on top of the ground. I am 
not in a position either to affirm or to question 
this statement. My own experience was con- 
fined to that part of the British front which lies 
between Messines in Belgium and Loos in 
France. There, certainly, one could walk for 
miles, through an intricate maze of continuous 
underground passages. 

But the firing-line trench was neither a traf- 
fic route nor a promenade. The great bulk of 
inter-trench business passed through the travel- 
ing trench, about fifteen yards in rear of the 
fire trench and running parallel to it. The two 
were connected by many passageways, the chief 
diff"erence between them being that the fire 
trench was the business district, while the trav- 
eling trench was primarily residential. Along 
the latter were built most of the dugouts, 
lavatories, and trench kitchens. The sleeping 
quarters for the men were not very elaborate. 
Recesses were made in the wall of the trench 
about two feet above the floor. They were not 

76 



Private Holloway 

more than three feet high, so that one had to 
crawl in head first when going to bed. They 
were partitioned in the middle, and were sup- 
posed to offer accommodation for four men, 
two on each side. But, as Shorty said, every- 
thing depended on the ration allowance. Two 
men who had eaten to repletion could not 
hope to occupy the same apartment. One had 
a choice of going to bed hungry or of eating 
heartily and sleeping outside on the firing- 
bench. 

"'Ere's a funny thing," he said. "W'y do 
you suppose they makes the dugouts open at 
one end?" 

I had no explanation to offer. 

"Crawl inside an' I'll show you." 

I stood my rifle against the side of the trench 
and crept in. ' 

"Now, yer supposed to be asleep," said 
Shorty, and with that he gave me a whack on 
the soles of my boots with his entrenching tool 
handle. I can still feel the pain of the blow. 

"Stand to! Wyke up 'ere! Stand to!" he 
shouted, and gave me another resounding wal- 
lop. 

77 



Kitchener's Mob 

I backed out in all haste. 

"Get the idea? That's 'ow they wykes you 
up at stand-to, or w'en your turn comes fer 
sentryw Not bad, wot?" 

I said that it all depended on whether one 
was doing the waking or the sleeping, and that, 
for my part, when sleeping, I would lie with my 
head out. 

"You would n't if you belonged to our lot. 
They'd give it to you on the napper just as 
quick as 'it you on the feet. You ain't on to the 
game, that's all. Let me show you suthin'." 

He crept inside and drew his knees up to his 
chest so that his feet were well out of reach. 
At his suggestion I tried to use the active 
service alarm clock on him, but there was not 
room enough in which to wield it. My feet 
were tingling from the effect of his blows, and I 
felt that the reputation for resourcefulness of 
Kitchener's Mob was at stake. In a moment 
of inspiration I seized my rifle, gave him a dig 
in the shins with the butt, and shouted, "Stand 
to, Shorty!" He came out rubbing his leg rue- 
fully. 

"You got the idea, mate," he said. "That's 

78 



Private Hollo way- 
just wot they does w'en you tries to double- 
cross 'em by puUin' yer feet in. I ain't sure 
w'ere I likes it best, on the shins or on the feet." 

This explanation of the reason for building 
three-sided dugouts, while not, of course, the 
true one, was none the less interesting. And 
certainly, the task of arousing sleeping men 
for sentry duty was greatly facilitated with 
rows of protruding boot soles "simply arskin' 
to be 'it," as Shorty put it. 

All of the dugouts for privates and N.C.O.s 
were of equal size and built on the same model, 
the reason being that the walls and floors, 
which were made of wood, and the roofs, which 
were of corrugated iron, were put together in 
sections at the headquarters of the Royal En- 
gineers, who superintended all the work of 
trench construction. The material was brought 
up at night ready to be fitted into excavations. 
Furthermore, with thousands of men to house 
within a very limited area, space was a most 
important consideration. There was no room 
for indulging individual tastes in dugout archi- 
tecture. The roofs were covered with from 
three to four feet of earth, which made them 

79 



Kitchener's Mob 

proof against shrapnel or shell splinters. In 
case of a heavy bombardment with high ex- 
plosives, the men took shelter in deep and nar- 
row "slip trenches." These were blind alley- 
ways leading off from the traveling trench, with 
room for from ten to fifteen men in each. At 
this part of the line there were none of the very 
deep shell-proof shelters, from fifteen to twenty 
feet below the surface of the ground, of which 
I had read. Most of the men seemed to be glad 
of this. They preferred taking their chances in 
an open trench during heavy shell fire. 

Realists and Romanticists lived side by side 
in the traveling trench. "My Little Gray 
Home in the West" was the modest legend over 
one apartment. The "Ritz Carlton" was next 
door to "The Rats' Retreat," with "Vermin 
Villa" next door but one. "The Suicide Club" 
was the suburban residence of some members of 
the bombing squad. I remarked that the bomb- 
ers seemed to take rather a pessimistic view of 
their profession, whereupon Shorty told me 
that if there were any men slated for the Order 
of the Wooden Cross, the bombers were those 
unfortunate ones. In an assault they were first 

80 



Private Holloway 

at the enemy's position. They had dangerous 
work to do even on the quietest of days. But 
theirs was a post of honor, and no one of them 
but was proud of his membership in the Suicide 
Club. 

The officers' quarters were on a much more 
generous and elaborate scale than those of the 
men. This I gathered from Shorty's description 
of them, for I saw only the exteriors as we 
passed along the trench. Those for platoon and 
company commanders were built along the 
traveling trench. The colonel, major, and adju- 
tant lived in a luxurious palace, about fifty 
yards down a communication trench. Near it 
was the officers' mess, a cafe de luxe with glass 
panels in the door, a cooking stove, a long 
wooden table, chairs, — everything, in fact, 
but hot and cold running water. 

"You know," said Shorty, "the officers 
thinks they 'as to rough it, but they got it soft, 
I'm tellin' you! Wooden bunks to sleep in, 
batmen to bring 'em 'ot water fer shavin' in the 
mornin', all the fags they wants, — Blimy, I 
wonder wot they calls livin' 'igh?" 

I agreed that in so far as living quarters are 

8i 



Kitchener's Mob 

concerned, they were roughing it under very 
pleasant circumstances. However, they were 
not always so fortunate, as later experience 
proved. Here there had been little serious fight- 
ing for months and the trenches were at their 
best. Elsewhere the officers' dugouts were often 
but little better than those of the men. 

The first-line trenches were connected with 
two lines of support or reserve trenches built in 
precisely the same fashion, and each heavily 
wired. The communication trenches which 
joined them were from seven to eight feet deep 
and wide enough to permit the convenient pas- 
sage of incoming and outgoing troops, and the 
transport of the wounded back to the field 
dressing stations. From the last reserve line 
they wound on backward through the fields 
until troops might leave them well out of range 
of rifle fire. Under Shorty's guidance I saw the 
field dressing stations^ the dugouts for the re- 
serve ammunition supply and the stores of 
bombs and hand grenades, battalion and bri- 
gade trench headquarters. We wandered from 
one part of the line to another through trenches, 
all of which were kept amazingly neat and clean. 

82 



Private Holl 



oway 



The walls were stayed with fine-mesh wire to 
hold the earth in place. The floors were cov- 
ered with board walks carefully laid over the 
drains, which ran along the center of the trench 
and emptied into deep wells, built in recesses in 
the walls. I felt very much encouraged when I 
saw the careful provisions for sanitation and 
drainage. On a fine June morning it seemed 
probable that living in ditches was not to be 
so unpleasant as I had imagined it. Shorty 
listened to my comments with a smile. 

"Don't pat yerself on the back yet a w'ile, 
mate," he said. "They looks right enough now, 
but wite till you've seen 'em arter a 'eavy 



* 5? 

ram. 



I had this opportunity many times during 
the summer and autumn. A more wretched ex- 
istence than that of soldiering in wet weather 
could hardly be imagined. The walls of the 
trenches caved in in great masses. The drains 
filled to overflowing, and the trench walks were 
covered deep in mud. After a few hours of 
rain, dry and comfortable trenches became a 
quagmire, and we were kept busy for days after- 
ward repairing the damage. 

83 



Kitchener's Mob 

As a machine gunner I was particularly in- 
terested in the construction of the machine- 
gun emplacements. The covered battle posi- 
tions were very solidly built. The roofs were 
supported with immense logs or steel girders 
covered over with many layers of sandbags. 
There were two carefully concealed loopholes 
looking out to a flank, but none for frontal fire, 
as this dangerous little weapon best enjoys 
catching troops in enfilade owing to the rapid- 
ity and the narrow cone of its fire. Its own 
front is protected by the guns on its right and 
left. At each emplacement there was a range 
chart giving the ranges to all parts of the ene- 
my's trenches, and to every prominent object 
both in front of and behind them, within its 
field of fire. When not in use the gun was kept 
mounted and ready for action in the battle 
position. 

"But remember this," said Shorty, "you 
never fires from your battle position except in 
case of attack. Wen you goes out at night to 
'ave a little go at Fritzie, you always tykes yer 
gun sommers else. If you don't, you'll 'ave 
Minnie an' Busy Bertha an' all the rest o' the 

84 



Private Hollo way 

Krupp childern comin' over to see w'ere you 
live." 

This was a wise precaution, as we were soon 
to learn from experience. Machine guns are 
objects of special interest to the artillery, and 
the locality from which they are fired becomes 
very unhealthy for some little time thereafter. 

We stopped for a moment at "The Mud 
Larks' Hairdressing Parlor," a very important 
institution if one might judge by its patronage. 
It was housed in a recess in the wall of the trav- 
eling trench, and was open to the sky. There I 
saw the latest fashion in "oversea" hair cuts. 
The victims sat on a ration box while the bar- 
ber mowed great swaths through tangled thatch 
with a pair of close-cutting clippers. But in- 
stead of making a complete job of it, a thick 
fringe of hair which resembled a misplaced 
scalping tuft was left for decorative purposes, 
just above the forehead. The effect was so 
grotesque that I had to invent an excuse for 
laughing. It was a lame one, I fear, for Shorty 
looked at me warningly. When we had gone on 
a little way he said : — 

"Ain't it a proper beauty parlor? But you 

85 



Kitchener's Mob 

got to be careful about larfin'. Some o' the 
blokes thinks that 'edge-row is a regular orna- 
ment." 

I had supposed that a daily shave was out of 
the question on the firing-line; but the British 
Tommy is nothing if not resourceful. Although 
water is scarce and fuel even more so, the self- 
respecting soldier easily surmounts difficulties, 
and the Gloucesters were all nice in matters per- 
taining to the toilet. Instead of draining their 
canteens of tea, they saved a few drops for 
shaving purposes. 

"It's a bit sticky," said Shorty, "but it's ot, 
an' not 'arf bad w'en you gets used to it. Now, 
another thing you don't want to ferget is this : 
W'en yer movin' up fer yer week in the first 
line, always bring a bundle o' firewood with 
you. They ain't so much as a match-stick left 
in the trenches. Then you wants to be savin' 
of it. Don't go an' use it all the first d'y or 
you'll 'ave to do without yer tea the rest o' the 
week." 

I remembered his emphasis upon this point 
afterward when I saw men risking their lives in 
order to procure firewood. Without his tea 

86 



Private Holloway 

Tommy was a wretched being. I do not remem- 
ber a day, no matter how serious the fighting, 
when he did not find both the time and the 
means for making it. 

Shorty was a Ph.D. in every subject in the 
curriculum, including domestic science. In 
preparing breakfast he gave me a practical 
demonstration of the art of conserving a limited 
resource of fuel, bringing our two canteens to a 
boil with a very meager handful of sticks; and 
while doing so he delivered an oral thesis on 
the best methods of food preparation. For ex- 
ample, there was the item of corned beef — 
familiarly called "bully." It was the piece de 
resistance at every meal with the possible ex- 
ception of breakfast, when there was usually a 
strip of bacon. Now, one's appetite for " bully " 
becomes jaded in the course of a few weeks or 
months. To use the German expression one 
does n't eat it gem. But it is not a question of 
liking it. One must eat it or go hungry. There- 
fore, said Shorty, save carefully all of your ba- 
con grease, and instead of eating your "bully" 
cold out of the tin, mix it with bread crumbs 
and grated cheese and fry it in the grease. He 

87 



Kitchener's Mob 

prepared some in this way, and I thought it a 
most delectable dish. Another way of stimulat- 
ing the palate was to boil the beef in a solution 
of bacon grease and water, and then, while 
eating it, "kid yerself that it's Irish stew." 
This second method of taking away the curse 
did not appeal to me very strongly, and Shorty 
admitted that he practiced such self-decep- 
tion with very indifferent success; for after all 
"bully" was "bully" in whatever form you 
ate it. 

In addition to this staple, the daily rations 
consisted of bacon, bread, cheese, jam, army 
biscuits, tea, and sugar. Sometimes they re- 
ceived a tinned meat and vegetable ration, al- 
ready cooked, and at welcome intervals fresh 
meat and potatoes were substituted for corned 
beef. Each man had a very generous allowance 
of food, a great deal more, I thought, than he 
could possibly eat. Shorty explained this by 
saying that allowance was made for the amount 
which would be consumed by the rats and the 
blue-bottle flies. 

There were, in fact, millions of flies. They 
settled in great swarms along the walls of the 

88 



Private Holloway 

trenches, which were filled to the brim with 
warm light as soon as the sun had climbed a 
little way up the sky. Empty tin-lined ammu- 
nition boxes were used as cupboards for food. 
But of what avail were cupboards to a jam-lov- 
ing 'and jam-fed British army living in open 
ditches in the summer time? Flytraps made 
of empty jam tins were set along the top of the 
parapet. As soon as one was filled, another was 
set in its place. But it was an unequal war 
against an expeditionary force of countless 
numbers. 

They ain't nothin' you can do," said Shorty. 
They steal the jam right off yer bread." 
As for the rats, speaking in the light of later 
experience, I can say that an army corps of pied 
pipers would not have sufficed to entice away 
the hordes of them that infested the trenches, 
living like house pets on our rations. They 
were great lazy animals, almost as large as cats, 
and so gorged with food that they could hardly 
move. They ran over us in the dugouts at 
night, and filched cheese and crackers right 
through the heavy waterproofed covering of our 
haversacks. They squealed and fought among 

89 



C6 
i6 



Kitchener's Mob 

themselves at all hours. I think it possible that 
they were carrion eaters, but never, to my 
knowledge, did they attack living men. While 
they were unpleasant bedfellows, we became so 
accustomed to them that we were not greatly 
concerned about our very intimate associations. 

Our course of instruction at the Parapet-etic 
School was brought to a close late in the eve- 
ning when we shouldered our packs, bade good- 
bye to our friends the Gloucesters, and marched 
back in the moonlight to our billets. I had 
gained an entirely new conception of trench life, 
of the difficulties involved in trench building, 
and the immense amount of material and labor 
needed for the work. 

Americans who are interested in learning of 
these things at first hand will do well to make 
the grand tour of the trenches when the war 
is finished. Perhaps the thrifty continentals 
will seek to commercialize such advantage as 
misfortune has brought them, in providing fa- 
vorable opportunities. Perhaps the Touring 
Club of France will lay out a new route, follow- 
ing the windings of the firing line from the 
Channel coast across the level fields of Flan- 

90 



Private Holloway 

ders, over the Vosges Mountains to the borders 
of Switzerland. Pedestrians may wish to make 
the journey on foot, cooking their supper over 
Tommy's rusty biscuit-tin stoves, sleeping at 
night in the dugouts where he lay shivering 
with cold during the winter nights of 19 14 and 
191 5. If there are enthusiasts who will be 
satisfied with only the most intimate personal 
view of the trenches, if there are those who 
would try to understand the hardships and 
discomforts of trench life by living it during 
a summer vacation, I would suggest that they 
remember Private Shorty Holloway's parting 
injunction to me : — 

"Now, don't ferget, Jamie!" he said as we 
shook hands, "always 'ave a box o' Keatings 
'andy, an' 'ang on to yer extra shirt!" 



CHAPTER VII 

MIDSUMMER CALM 

During our first summer In the trenches 
there were days, sometimes weeks at a time, 
when, in the language of the official bulletins, 
there was "nothing to report," or "calm" pre- 
vailed "along our entire front." From the War 
Office point of view these statements were, 
doubtless, true enough. But from Tommy 
Atkins's point of view, "calm" was putting it 
somewhat mildly. Life in the trenches, even on 
the quietest of days, is full of adventure highly 
spiced with danger. Snipers, machine gunners, 
artillerymen, airmen, engineers of the opposing 
sides, vie with each other in skill and daring, in 
order to secure that coveted advantage, the 
morale. Tommy calls it the "more-ale," but 
he jolly well knows when he has it and when he 
has n't. 

There were many nights of official calm when 
we machine gunners crept out of the trenches 
with our guns to positions prepared beforehand, 
either in front of the line or to the rear of it. 

92 



Midsummer Calm 

There we waited for messages from our listen- 
ing patrols, who were lying in the tall grass of 
"the front yard." They sent word to us imme- 
diately when they discovered enemy working 
parties building up their parapets or mending 
their barbed-wire entanglements. We would 
then lay our guns according to instructions re- 
ceived and blaze away, each gun firing at the 
rate of from three hundred to five hundred 
rounds per minute. After a heavy burst of fire, 
we would change our positions at once. It was 
then that the most exciting part of our work 
began. For as soon as we ceased firing, there 
were answering fusillades from hundreds of 
German rifles. And within two or three min- 
utes, German field artillery began a search for 
us with shrapnel. We crawled from one posi- 
tion to another over the open ground or along 
shallow ditches, dug for the purpose. These 
offered protection from rifle fire, but frequently 
the shell fire was so heavy and so well directed 
that we were given some very unpleasant half- 
hours, lying flat on our faces, listening to the 
deafening explosions and the vicious whistling 
of flying shrapnel. 

93 



Kitchener's Mob 

We fired from the trenches, as well as in front 
and to the rear of them. We were, in fact, busy 
during most of the night, for it was our duty to 
see to it that our guns Hved up to their reputa- 
tion as "weapons of opportunity and surprise." 
With the aid of large-scale maps, we located all 
of the roads, within range, back of the German 
lines; roads which we knew were used by enemy 
troops moving in and out of the trenches. We 
located all of their communication trenches 
leading back to the rear; and at uncertain inter- 
vals we covered roads and trenches with bursts 
of searching fire. 

The German gunners were by no means in- 
active. They, too, profited by their knowledge 
of night life in the firing-line, their knowledge of 
soldier nature. They knew, as did we, that the 
roads in the rear of the trenches are filled, 
at night, with troops, transport wagons, and 
fatigue parties. They knew, as did we, that 
men become so utterly weary of living in ditches 
— living in holes, like rats — that they are will- 
ing to take big risks when moving in or out of 
the trenches, for the pure joy of getting up on 
top of the ground. Many a night when we were 

94 



Midsummer Calm 

moving up for our week in the first line, or back 
for our week in reserve, we heard the far-off 
rattle of German Maxims, and in an instant, 
the bullets would be zip-zipping all around us. 
There was no need for the sharp word of com- 
mand. If there was a communication trench at 
hand, we all made a dive for it at once. If there 
was not, we fell face down, in ditches, shell 
holes, in any place which offered a little protec- 
tion from that terrible hail of lead. Many of 
our men were killed and wounded nightly by 
machine-gun fire, usually because they were 
too tired to be cautious. And, doubtless, we 
did as much damage with our own guns. It 
seemed to me horrible, something in the nature 
of murder, that advantage must be taken of 
these opportunities. But it was all a part of the 
game of war; and fortunately, we rarely knew, 
nor did the Germans, what damage was done 
during those summer nights of "calm along the 
entire front." 

The artillerymen, both British and German, 
did much to relieve the boredom of those 
"nothing to report" days. There were desul- 
tory bombardments of the trenches at day- 

95 



Kitchener's Mob 

break, and at dusk, when every infantryman is 
at his post, rifle in hand, bayonet fixed, on the 
alert for signs of a surprise attack. If it was a 
bombardment with shrapnel. Tommy was not 
greatly concerned, for in trenches he is fairly 
safe from shrapnel fire. But if the shells were 
large-caliber high explosives, he crouched close 
to the front wall of the trench, lamenting the 
day he was foolish enough to become an infan- 
tryman, " a bloomin' 'uman ninepin ! " Covered 
with dirt, sometimes half-buried in fallen 
trench, he wagered his next week's tobacco ra- 
tions that the London papers would print the 
same old story: "Along the western front there 
is nothing to report." And usually he won. 

Trench mortaring was more to our liking. 
That is an infantryman's game, and, while 
extremely hazardous, the men in the trenches 
have a sporting chance. Every one forgot 
breakfast when word was passed down the line 
that we were going to "mortarfy " Fritzie. The 
last-relief night sentries, who had just tumbled 
sleepily into their dugouts, tumbled out of them 
again to watch the fun. Fatigue parties, work- 
ing in the communication trenches, dropped 

96 



Midsummer Calm 

their picks and shovels and came hurrying up 
to the first line. Eagerly, expectantly, every 
one waited for the sport to begin. Our projec- 
tiles were immense balls of hollow steel, filled 
with high explosive of tremendous power. They 
were fired from a small gun, placed, usually, in 
the first line of reserve trenches. A dull boom 
from the rear warned us that the game had 
started. 

"There she is!" "See 'er? Goin' true as a 
die!" "She'sgoV to'it! She's go V to 'it!" 
All of the boys would be shouting at once. Up 
it goes, turning over and over, rising to a height 
of several hundred feet. Then, if well aimed, it 
reaches the end of its upward journey directly 
over the enemy's line, and falls straight into his 
trench. There is a moment of silence, followed 
by a terrific explosion which throws dirt and 
debris high in the air. By this time every 
Tommy along the line is standing on the 
firing-bench, head and shoulders above the 
parapet, quite forgetting his own danger in 
his excitement, and shouting at the top of his 



voice. 

a 9 



Ow's that one, Fritzie boy?" 

97 



Kitchener's Mob 



"Gooten morgen, you Proosian sausage- 
wallopers!" 

"Tyke a bit o' that there 'ome to yer missus 1 " 

But Fritzie could be depended upon to keep 
up his end of the game. He gave us just as good 
as we sent, and often he added something for 
full measure. His surprises were sausage-shaped 
missiles which came wobbling toward us, slowly, 
almost awkwardly; but they dropped with light- 
ning speed, and alas, for any poor Tommy who 
misjudged the place of its fall! However, every 
one had a chance. Trench-mortar projectiles 
are so large that one can see them coming, and 
they describe so leisurely an arc before they 
fall that men have time to run. 

I have always admired Tommy Atkins for 
his sense of fair play. He enjoyed giving Fritz 
"a little bit of all-right," but he never resented 
it when Fritz had his own fun at our expense. 
In the far-off days of peace, I used to lament 
the fact that we had fallen upon evil times. I 
read of old wars with a feeling of regret that 
men had lost their old primal love for dangerous 
sport, their naive ignorance of fear. All the 
brave, heroic things of life were said and done. 

98 



Midsummer Calm 

But on those trench-mortaring days, when I 
watched boys playing with death with right 
good zest, heard them shouting and laughing 
as they tumbled over one another in their 
eagerness to escape it, I was convinced of my 
error. Daily I saw men going through the test 
of fire triumphantly, and, at the last, what a 
severe test it was!. And how splendidly they 
met it! During six months continuously in the 
firing-line, I met less than a dozen natural-born 
cowards; and my experience was largely with 
plumbers, drapers' assistants, clerks, men who 
had no fighting traditions to back them up, 
make them heroic in spite of themselves. 

The better I knew Tommy, the better I liked 
him. He has n't a shred of sentimentality in his 
make-up. There is plenty of sentiment, sincere 
feeling, but it is admirably concealed. I had 
been a soldier of the King for many months 
before I realized that the men with whom I was 
living, sharing rations and hardships, were any- 
thing other than the healthy animals they 
looked. They relished their food and talked 
about it. They grumbled at the restraints mil- 
itary discipline imposed upon them, and at the 

99 



Kitchener's Mob 

paltry shilling a day which they received for 
the first really hard work they had ever done. 
They appeared to regard England as a miserly 
employer, exacting their last ounce of energy 
for a wretchedly inadequate wage. To the cas- 
ual observer, theirs was not the ardor of loyal 
sons, fighting for a beloved motherland. Rather, 
it seemed that of irresponsible schoolboys on a 
long holiday. They said nothing about patri- 
otism or the duty of Englishmen in war-time. 
And if I attempted to start a conversation 
along that line, they walked right over me with 
their boots on. 

This was a great disappointment at first. I 
should never have known, from anything that 
was said, that a man of them was stirred at the 
thought of fighting for old England. England 
was all right, but "I ain't goin' balmy about 
the old flag and all that stuff." Many of them 
insisted that they were in the army for personal 
and selfish reasons alone. They went out of 
their way to ridicule any and every indication 
of sentiment. 

There was the matter of talk about mothers, 
for example. I can't imagine this being the case 

100 



Midsummer Calm 

in a volunteer army of American boys, but not 
once, during fifteen months of British army 
life, did I hear a discussion of mothers. When 
the weekly parcels from England arrived and 
the boys were sharing their cake and chocolate 
and tobacco, one of them would say, "Good old 
mum. She ain't a bad sort"; to be answered 
with reluctant, mouth-filled grunts, or grudging 
nods of approval. As for fathers, I often thought 
to myself, "What a tremendous army of post- 
humous sons!" Months before I would have 
been astonished at this reticence. But I had 
learned to understand Tommy. His silences 
were as eloquent as any splendid outbursts or 
glowing tributes could have been. Indeed, they 
were far more eloquent! Englishmen seem to 
have an instinctive understanding of the futil- 
ity, the emptiness, of words in the face of un- 
speakable experiences. It was a matter of con- 
stant wonder to me that men, living in the daily 
and hourly presence of death, could so surely 
control and conceal their feelings. Their talk 
was of anything but home; and yet, I knew 
they thought of but little else. 
One of our boys was killed, and there was 

lOI 



Kitchener's Mob 

the letter to be written to his parents. Three 
Tommies who knew him best were to attempt 
this. They made innumerable beginnings. Each 
of them was afraid of blundering, of causing 
unnecessary pain by an indelicate revelation of 
the facts. There was a feminine fineness about 
their concern which was beautiful to see. The 
final draft of the letter was a little masterpiece, 
not of English, but of insight; such a letter as 
any one of us would have wished his own par- 
ents to receive under like circumstances. No- 
thing was forgotten which could have made the 
news in the slightest degree more endurable. 
Every trifling personal belonging was carefully 
saved and packed in a little box to follow the 
letter. All of this was done amid much boister- 
ous jesting. And there was the usual hilarious 
singing to the wheezing accompaniment of an 
old mouth-organ. But of reference to home, or 
mothers, or comradeship, — nothing. 

Rarely a night passed without its burial par- 
ties. "Digging in the garden" Tommy calls the 
grave-making. The bodies, wrapped in blank- 
ets or waterproof ground-sheets, are lifted over 
the parados, and carried back a convenient 

102 



Midsummer Calm 

twenty yards or more. The desolation of that 
garden, choked with weeds and a wild growth 
of self-sown crops, is indescribable. It was 
wreckage-strewn, gaping with shell holes, bil- 
lowing with innumerable graves, a waste land 
speechlessly pathetic. The poplar trees and 
willow hedges have been blasted and splintered 
by shell fire. Tommy calls these "Kaiser Bill's 
flowers." Coming from England, he'feels more 
deeply than he would care to admit the crimes 
done to trees in the name of war. 

Our chaplain was a devout man, but prudent 
to a fault. Never, to my knowledge, did he visit 
us in the trenches. Therefore our burial parties 
proceeded without the rites of the Church. This 
arrangement was highly satisfactory to Tommy. 
He liked to "get the planting done" with the 
least possible delay or fuss. His whispered con- 
versations while the graves were being scooped 
were, to say the least, quite out of the spirit of 
the occasion. Once we were burying two boys 
with whom we had been having supper a few 
hours before. There was an artillery duel in 
progress, the shells whistling high over our 
heads, and bursting in great splotches of white 

103 



Kitchener's Mob 

fire, far in rear of the opposing lines of trenches. 
The grave-making went speedily on, while the 
burial party argued in whispers as to the caliber 
of the guns. Some said they were six-inch, while 
others thought nine-inch. Discussion was mo- 
mentarily suspended when a trench rocket shot 
in an arc from the enemy's line. We crouched, 
motionless, until the welcome darkness spread 
again. 

And then, in loud whispers : — 

"'Ere! If they was nine-inch, they would 
'ave more screech." 

And one from the other school of opinion 
would reply: — 

"Don't talk so bloomin' silly! Ain't I a-tellin* 
you that you can't always size 'em by the 
screech ? " 

Not a prayer; not a word, either of censure 
or of praise, for the boys who had gone; not an 
expression of opinion as to the meaning of the 
great change which had come to them and which 
might come, as suddenly, to any or all of us. 
And yet I knew that they were each thinking 
of these things. 

There were days when the front was really 

104 



Midsummer Calm 

quiet. The thin trickle of rifle fire only accentu- 
ated the stillness of an early summer morning. 
Far down the line Tommy could be heard, sing- 
ing to himself as he sat in the door of his dugout, 
cleaning his rifle, or making a careful scrutiny 
of his shirt for those unwelcome little parasites 
which made life so miserable for him at all times. 
There were pleasant cracklings of burning pine 
sticks and the sizzle of frying bacon. Great 
swarms of bluebottle flies buzzed lazily in the 
warm sunshine. Sometimes, across a pool of 
noonday silence, we heard birds singing; for the 
birds did n't desert us. When we gave them a 
hearing, they did their cheery little best to as- 
sure us that everything would come right in the 
end. Once we heard a skylark, an English sky- 
lark, singing over No-Man's-Land ! I scarcely 
know which gave me more pleasure, the song, 
or the sight of the faces of those English lads 
as they listened. I was deeply touched when 
one of them said : — 

"Ain't 'e a plucky little chap, singin' right in 
front of Fritzie's trenches fer us English blokes ? " 

It was a sincere and fitting tribute, as perfect 
for a soldier as Shelley's "Ode" for a poet. 

loS 



Kitchener's Mob 

Along the part of the British front which we 
held during the summer, the opposing lines of 
trenches were from less than a hundred to four 
hundred and fifty or five hundred yards apart. 
When we were neighborly as regards distance, 
we were also neighborly as regards social inter- 
course. In the early mornings when the heavy 
night mists still concealed the lines, the boys 
stood head and shoulders above the parapet 
and shouted: — 

"Hi, Fritzie!" 

And the greeting was returned : — 

"Hi, Tommy!" 

Then we conversed. Very few of us knew 
German, but it is surprising how many Ger- 
mans could speak English. Frequently they 
shouted, "Got any 'woodbines,' Tommy?" — 
his favorite brand of cigarettes; and Tommy 
would reply, "Sure! Shall I bring 'em over 
or will you come an' fetch 'em?" This was 
often the ice-breaker, the beginning of a con- 
versation which varied considerably in other 
details. 

"Who are you?" Fritzie would shout. 

And Tommy, "We're the King's Own 'Ymn 

io6 



Midsummer Calm 

of 'Aters"; some such subtle repartee as that. 
"Wot's your mob?" 

"We're a battalion of Irish rifles." The Ger- 
mans liked to provoke us by pretending that 
the Irish were disloyal to England. 

Sometimes they shouted : — 

"Any of you from London?" 

"Not arf ! Wot was you a-doin' of in London ? 
Witin' tible at Sam Isaac's fish-shop ? " 

The rising of the mists put an end to these 
conversations. Sometimes they were concluded 
earlier with bursts of rifle and machine-gun 
fire. "All right to be friendly," Tommy would 
say, "but we got to let 'em know this ain't no 
love-feast." 



CHAPTER VIII 

UNDER COVER 
I. UNSEEN FORCES 

"We come acrost the Channel 
For to wallop Germany; 
But they 'ave n't got no soldiers — 
Not that any one can see. 
They plug us with their rifles 
An' they let their shrapnel fly, 
But they never takes a pot at us 
Exceptin' on the sly. 

Chorus 

"Fritzie w'en you comin' out? 
This wot you calls a fight? 
You won't never get to Calais 
Always keepin' out o' sight. 

"We're a goin' back to Blightey — 
Wot's the use a-witin' 'ere 
Like a lot o' bloomin' mud-larks 
Fer old Fritzie to appear? 
'E never puts 'is napper up 
Above the parapet. 
We been in France fer seven months 
An' 'ave n't seen 'im yet!" 

So sang Tommy, the incorrigible parodist, 
during the long summer days and nights of 

io8 



Under Cover 

191 5, when he was impatiently waiting for 
something to turn up. For three months and 
more we were face to face with an enemy whom 
we rarely saw. It was a weird experience. 
Rifles cracked, bullets zip-zipped along the top 
of the parapet, great shells whistled over our 
heads or tore immense holes in the trenches, 
trench-mortar projectiles and hand-grenades 
were hurled at us, and yet there was not a living 
soul to be seen across the narrow strip of No- 
Man's-Land, whence all this murderous rain of 
steel and lead was coming. Daily we kept care- 
ful and continuous watch, searching the long, 
curving line of German trenches and the ground 
behind them with our periscopes and field- 
glasses, and nearly always with the same barren 
result. We saw only the thin wreaths of smoke 
rising, morning and evening, from trench fires; 
the shattered trees, the forlorn and silent ruins, 
the long grass waving in the wind. 

Although we were often within two hundred 
yards of thousands of German soldiers, rarely 
farther than four hundred yards away, I did 
not see one of them until we had been in the 
trenches for more than six weeks, and then only 

109 



Kitchener's Mob 

for the Interval of a second or two. My German 
was building up a piece of damaged parapet. 
I watched the earth being thrown over the top 
of the trench, when suddenly a head appeared, 
only to be immediately withdrawn. One of our 
snipers had evidently been watching, too. A 
rifle cracked and I saw a cloud of dust arise 
where the bullet clipped the top of the parapet. 
The German waved his spade defiantly in the 
air and continued digging; but he remained 
discreetly under cover thereafter. 

This marked an epoch in my experience in a 
war of unseen forces. I had actually beheld a 
German, although Tommy insisted that it was 
only the old caretaker, "the bloke wot keeps 
the trenches tidy." This mythical personage, a 
creature of Tommy's own fancy, assumed a 
very real importance during the summer when 
the attractions at the Western Theater of War 
were only mildly interesting. "Carl the care- 
taker" was supposed to be a methodical old 
man whom the Emperor had left in charge of 
his trenches on the western front during the 
absence of the German armies In Russia. Many 
were the stories told about him at different 

no 



Under Cover 

parts of the line. Sometimes he was endowed 
with a family. His "missus" and his "three 
little nippers" were with him, and together 
they were blocking the way to Berlin of the 
entire British Army. Sometimes he was "Hans 
the Grenadier," owing to his fondness for 
nightly bombing parties. Sometimes he was 
"Minnie's husband," Minnie being that re- 
doubtable lady known in polite military circles 
as a "Minnenwerfer." As already explained, 
she was sausage-like in shape, and frightfully 
demonstrative. When she went visiting at the 
behest of her husband, Tommy usually con- 
trived to be "not at home," whereupon Minnie 
wrecked the house and disappeared in a cloud 
of dense black smoke. 

One imagines all sorts of monstrous things 
about an unseen enemy. The strain of con- 
stantly watching and seeing nothing became 
almost unbearable at times. We were often too 
far apart to have our early morning interchange 
of courtesies, and then the constant phtt-phtt of 
bullets annoyed and exasperated us. I for one 
welcomed any evidence that our opponents 
were fathers and husbands and brothers just as 

III 



Kitchener's Mob 

we were. I remember my delight, one fine sum- 
mer morning, at seeing three great kites soaring 
above the German line. There is much to be 
said for men who enjoy flying kites. Once they 
mounted a dummy figure of a man on their 
parapet. Tommy had great sport shooting at 
it, the Germans jiggling its arms and legs in a 
most laughable manner whenever a hit was 
registered. In their eagerness to "get a good 
bead" on the figure, the men threw caution to 
the winds, and stood on the firing-benches, 
shooting over the top of the parapet. Fritz 
and Hans were true sportsmen while the fun 
was on, and did not once fire at us. Then the 
dummy was taken down, and we returned to the 
more serious game of war with the old deadly 
earnestness. I recall such incidents with joy as 
I remember certain happy events in childhood. 
We needed these trivial occurrences to keep us 
sane and human. There were not many of 
them, but such as there were, we talked of for 
days and weeks afterward. 

As for the matter of keeping out of sight, 
there was a good deal to be said on both sides. 
Although Tommy was impatient with his pru- 

112 



Under Cover 

dent enemy and sang songs, twitting him about 
always keeping under cover, he did not usually 
forget, in the daytime at least, to make his own 
observations of the German line with caution. 
Telescopic sights have made the business of 
sniping an exact science. They magnify the 
object aimed at many diameters, and if it re- 
mains in view long enough to permit the pulling 
of a trigger, the chances of a hit are almost one 
hundred per cent. 

II. "the butt-notcher" 

Snipers have a roving commission. They 
move from one part of the line to another, 
sometimes firing from carefully concealed loop- 
holes in the parapet, sometimes from snipers' 
nests in trees or hedges. Often they creep out 
into the tall grass of No-Man's-Land, There, 
with a plentiful supply of food and ammuni- 
tion, they remain for a day or two at a time, 
lying in wait for victims. It was a cold-blooded 
business, and hateful to some of the men. With 
others, the passion for it grew. They kept 
tally of their victims by cutting notches on the 
butts of their rifles. 

113 



Kitchener's Mob 

I well remember the pleasant June day when 
I first met a "butt-notcher." I was going for 
water, to an old farmhouse about half a mile 
from our sector of trench. It was a day of 
bright sunshine. Poppies and buttercups had 
taken root in the banks of earth heaped up on 
either side of the communication trench. They 
were nodding their heads as gayly in the breeze 
as of old did Wordsworth's daffodils in the 
quiet countryside at Rydal Mount. It was a joy 
to see them there, reminding one that God was 
still in his heaven, whatever might be wrong 
with the world. It was a joy to be alive, a 
joy which one could share unselfishly with 
friend and enemy alike. The colossal stupidity 
of war was never more apparent to me than 
upon that day. I hated my job, and if I 
hated any man, it was the one who had 
invented the murderous little weapon known 
as a machine gun. 

I longed to get put on top of the ground. 
I wanted to lie at full length in the grass; for 
it was June, and Nature has a way of making 
one feel the call of June, even from the bottom 
of a communication trench seven feet deep. 

114 



Under Cover 

Flowers and grass peep down at one, and white 
clouds sail placidly across 

"The strip of blue we prisoners call the sky." 

I felt that I must see all of the sky and see it at 
once. Therefore I set down my water cans, one 
on top of the other, stepped up on them, and 
was soon over the top of the trench, crawling 
through the tall grass toward a clump of wil- 
lows about fifty yards away. I passed two 
lonely graves with their wooden crosses hidden 
in depths of shimmering, waving green, and 
found an old rifle, its stock weather-warped and 
the barrel eaten away with rust. The ground 
was covered with tin cans, fragments of shell- 
casing, and rubbish of all sorts; but it was hid- 
den from view. Men had been laying waste the 
earth during the long winter, and now June was 
healing the wounds with flowers and cool green 
grasses. 

I was sorry that I went to the willows, for it 
was there that I found the sniper. He had a 
wonderfully concealed position, which was 
made bullet-proof with steel plates and sand- 
bags, all covered so naturally with growing 

115 



Kitchener's Mob 

grass and willow bushes that it would have 
been impossible to detect it at a distance of 
ten yards. In fact, I would not have discov- 
ered it had it not been for the loud crack of a 
rifle sounding so close at hand. I crept on to 
investigate and found the sniper looking quite 
disappointed. 

"Missed the blighter!" he said. Then he 
told me that it was n't a good place for a 
sniper's nest at all. For one thing, it was too 
far back, nearly a half-mile from the German 
trenches. Furthermore, it was a mistake to 
plant a nest in a solitary clump of willows such 
as this : a clump of trees ofi'ers too good an aim- 
ing mark for artillery : much better to make a 
position right out in the open. However, so far 
he had not been annoyed by shell fire. A ma- 
chine gun had searched for him, but he had 
adequate cover from machine-gun fire. 

"But, blimy! You ought to 'a' 'eard the row 
w'en the bullets was a-smackin' against the 
sandbags! Somebody was a-knockin' at the 
door, I give you my word!" 

However, it wasn't such a "dusty little coop," 
and he had a good field of fire. He had regis- 

ii6 



Under Cover 

tered four hits during the day, and he proudly 
displayed four new notches on a badly notched 
butt in proof of the fact. 

"There's a big 'ole w'ere the artlU'ry pushed 
in their parapet larst night. That's w'ere I 
caught me larst one, 'bout a 'arf-hour ago. A 
bloke goes by every little w'ile an' fergets to 
duck 'is napper. Tyke yer field-glasses an' 
watch me clip the next one. Quarter left 
it is, this side the old 'ouse with the'ole in 
the wall." 

I focused my glasses and waited. Presently 
he said, in a very cool, matter-of-fact voice : — 

"There's one comin'. See 'im? 'E's carryin' 
a plank. You can see it stickin' up above the 
parapet. 'E's a-go'n' to get a nasty one if 'e 
don't duck w'en he comes to that 'ole." 

I found the moving plank and followed it 
along the trench as it approached nearer and 
nearer to the opening; and I was guilty of the 
most unprofessional conduct, for I kept think- 
ing, as hard as I could, "Duck, Fritzie! What- 
ever you do, duck when you come to that hole ! " 
And surely enough, he did. The plank was low- 
ered into the trench just before the opening was 

117 



Kitchener's Mob 

reached, and the top of it reappeared again, a 
moment later, on the other side of the opening. 
The sniper was greatly disappointed. 

"Now, would n't that give you the camel's 
'ump?" he said. "I believe you're a Joner to 
me, matey." 

Presently another man carrying a plank went 
along the trench and he ducked, too. 

"Grease off, Jerry!" said the butt-notcher. 
"Yer bringin' me bad luck. 'Owever, they 
prob'ly got that place taped. They lost one 
man there an' they won't lose another, not if 
they knows it." 

I talked with many snipers at different parts 
of the line. It was interesting to get their points 
of view, to learn what their reaction was to 
their work. The butt-notchers were very few. 
Although snipers invariably took pride in their 
work, it was the sportsman's pride in good 
marksmanship rather than the love of killing 
for its own sake. The general attitude was that 
of a corporal whom I knew. He never fired has- 
tily, but when he did pull the trigger, his bullet 
went true to the mark. 

"You can't 'elp feelin' sorry for the poor 

ii8 



Under Cover 

blighters," he would say, "but it's us or them, 
an' every one you knocks over means one of our 
blokes saved." 

I have no doubt that the Germans felt the 
same way about us. At any rate, they thor- 
oughly believed in the policy of attrition, and 
in carrying it out they often wasted thousands 
of rounds in sniping every yard of our parapet. 
The sound was deafening at times, particularly 
when there were ruined walls of houses or a 
row of trees just back of our trenches. The ear- 
splitting reports were hurled against them and 
seemed to be shattered into thousands of frag- 
ments, the sound rattling and tumbling on 
until it died away far in the distance. 

III. NIGHT ROUTINE 

Meanwhile, like furtive inhabitants of an 
infamous underworld, we remained hidden in 
our lairs in the daytime, waiting for night when 
we could creep out of our holes and go about 
our business under cover of darkness. Sleep is 
a luxury indulged in but rarely in the first-line 
trenches. When not on sentry duty at night, 
the men were organized into working parties, 

119 



Kitchener's Mob 

and sent out in front of the trenches to mend 
the barbed-wire entanglements which are being 
constantly destroyed by artillery fire; or, in 
summer, to cut the tall grass and the weeds 
which would otherwise offer concealment to 
enemy listening patrols or bombing parties. 
Ration fatigues of twenty or thirty men per 
company went back to meet the battalion 
transport wagons at some point several miles 
in rear of the firing-line. There were trench 
supplies and stores to be brought up as well, 
and the never-finished business of mending and 
improving the trenches kept many off"-duty 
men employed during the hours of darkness. 

The men on duty in front of the trenches 
were always in very great danger. They worked 
swiftly and silently, but they were often dis- 
covered, in which case the only warning they 
received was a sudden burst of machine- 
gun fire. Then would come urgent calls for 
" Stretcher bearers ! " and soon the wreckage was 
brought in over the parapet. The stretchers 
were set down in the bottom of the trench 
and hasty examinations made by the light of 
a flash lamp. 

1 20 



Under Cover 



cc 



'W'ere's 'e caught it?" 

" 'Ere it is, through the leg. Tyke 'is puttee 
off, one of you!" 

"Easy, now! It's smashed the bone! Stick 
it, matey! We'll soon 'ave you as right as 
rain!" 

"Fer Gawd's sake, boys, go easy! It's givin' 
me 'ell! Let up! Let up just a minute!" 

Many a conversation of this sort did we hear 
at night when the field-dressings were being 
put on. But even in his suffering Tommy never 
forgot to be unrighteously indignant if he had 
been wounded when on a working party. What 
could he say to the women of England who 
would bring him fruit and flowers in hospital, 
call him a "poor brave fellow," and ask how he 
was wounded? He had enlisted as a soldier, and 
as a reward for his patriotism the Government 
had given him a shovel, " an' 'ere I am, workin' 
like a bloomin' navvy, fillin' sandbags full o' 
France, w'en I up an' gets plugged!" The men 
who most bitterly resented the pick-and-shovel 
phase of army life were given a great deal of it 
to do for that very reason. One of my comrades 
was shot in the leg while digging a refuse pit. 

121 



Kitchener's Mob 

The wound was a bad one and he suffered much 
pain, but the humiUation was even harder to 
bear. What could he tell them at home? 

"Do you think Pm a go'n' to s'y I was 
a-carryin' a sandbag full of old jam tins back 
to the refuse pit w'en Fritzie gave me this 'ere 
one in the leg? Not so bloomin' likely! I was 
afraid I'd get one like this! Ain't it a rotten 
bit o' luck!" 

If he had to be a casualty Tommy wanted to 
be an interesting one. He wanted to fall in the 
heat of battle, not in the heat of inglorious 
fatigue duty. 

But there was more heroic work to be done: 
going out on listening patrol, for example. One 
patrol, consisting of a sergeant or a corporal 
and four or five privates, was sent out from 
each company. It was the duty of these men 
to cover the area immediately in front of the 
company line of trench, to see and hear without 
being discovered, and to report immediately 
any activity of the enemy, above or below 
ground, of which they might learn. They were 
on duty for from three to five hours, and might 
use a wide discretion in their prowlings, pro- 

122 



Under Cover 

vided they kept within the limits of frontage 
allotted to their own company, and returned to 
the meeting-place where the change of reliefs 
was made. These requirements were not easily 
complied with, unless there were trees or other 
prominent landmarks standing out against the 
sky by means of which a patrol could keep its 
direction. 

The work required, above everything else, 
cool heads and stout hearts. There was the 
ever-present danger of meeting an enemy patrol 
or bombing party, in which case, if they could 
not be avoided, there would be a hand-to-hand 
encounter with bayonets, or a noisy exchange 
of hand-grenades. There was danger, too, of 
a false alarm started by a nervous sentry. 
It needs but a moment for such an alarm to 
become general, so great is the nervous ten- 
sion at which men live on the firing-line. 
Terrific fusillades from both sides followed 
while the listening patrols flattened them- 
selves out on the ground, and listened, in no 
pleasant frame of mind, to the bullets whis- 
tling over their heads. But at night, and under 
the stress of great excitement, men fire high. 

123 



Kitchener's Mob 

Strange as it may seem, one is comparatively 
safe even in the open, when lying flat on the 
ground. 

Bombing affairs were of almost nightly occur- 
rence. Tommy enjoyed these extremely haz- 
ardous adventures which he called "Carryin' 
a 'app'orth o' 'ate to Fritzie," a halfpenny 
worth of hate, consisting of six or a dozen hand- 
grenades which he hurled into the German 
trenches from the far side of their entangle- 
ments. The more hardy spirits often worked 
their way through the barbed wire and, from a 
position close under the parapet, they waited 
for the sound of voices. When they had located 
the position of the sentries, they tossed their 
bombs over with deadly effect. The sound of 
the explosions called forth an immediate and 
heavy fire from sentries near and far; but lying 
close under the very muzzles of the German 
rifles, the bombers were in no danger unless a 
party were sent out in search of them. This, of 
course, constituted the chief element of risk. 
The strain of waiting for developments was a 
severe one. I have seen men come in from a 
"bombing stunt" worn out and trembling from 

124 



Under Cover 

nervous fatigue. And yet many of them en- 
joyed it, and were sent out night after night. 
The excitement of the thing worked into their 
blood. 

Throughout the summer there was a great 
deal more digging to do than fighting, for it was 
not until the arrival on active service of Kitch- 
ener's armies that the construction of the double 
line of reserve or support trenches was under- 
taken. From June until September this work 
was pushed rapidly forward. There were also 
trenches to be made in advance of the original 
firing-line, for the purpose of connecting up 
advanced points and removing dangerous sali- 
ents. At such times there was no loafing until 
we had reached a depth sufficient to protect us 
both from view and from fire. We picked and 
shoveled with might and main, working in 
absolute silence, throwing ourselves flat on the 
ground whenever a trench rocket was sent up 
from the German lines. Casualties were fre- 
quent, but this was inevitable, working, as we 
did, in the open, exposed to every chance shot 
of an enemy sentry. The stretcher-bearers lay 



Kitchener's Mob 

in the tall grass close at hand awaiting the 
whispered word, ''Stretcher-bearers this way!" 
and they were kept busy during much of the 
time we were at work, carrying the wounded 
to the rear. 

It was surprising how quickly the men be- 
came accustomed to the nerve-trying duties in 
the firing-line. Fortunately for Tommy, the 
longer he is in the army, the greater becomes 
his indifference to danger. His philosophy is 
fatalistic. "What is to be will be" is his only 
comment when one of his comrades is killed. 
A bullet or a shell works with such lightning 
speed that danger is passed before one realizes 
that it is at hand. Therefore, men work dog- 
gedly, carelessly, and in the background of con- 
sciousness there is always that comforting be- 
lief, common to all soldiers, that "others may 
be killed, but somehow, I shall escape." 

The most important in-trench duty, as well 
as the most wearisome one for the men, is their 
period on "sentry-go." Eight hours in twenty- 
four — four two-hour shifts — each man stands 
at his post on the firing-bench, rifle in hand, 
keeping a sharp lookout over the "front yard." 

126 



Under Cover 

At night he observes as well as he can over the 
top of the parapet; in the daytime by means of 
his periscope. Most of our large periscopes 
were shattered by keen-sighted German snip- 
ers. We used a very good substitute, one of the 
simplest kind, a piece of broken pocket mirror 
placed on the end of a split stick, and set at an 
angle on top of the parados. During the two 
hours of sentry duty we had nothing to do other 
than to keep watch and keep awake. The latter 
was by far the more difficult business at night. 

"'Ere, sergeant!" Tommy would say, as the 
platoon sergeant felt his way along the trench 
in the darkness, "w'en is the next relief comin' 
on? Yer watch needs a good blacksmith. I been 
on sentry three hours if I been a minute!" 

"Never you mind about my watch, son! You 
got another forty-five minutes to do." 

"Will you listen to that, you blokes! S'y! I 
could myke a better timepiece out of an old 
bully tin ! I 'm tellin' you straight, I '11 be asleep 
w'en you come 'round again!" 

But he is n't. Although the temptation may 
be great, Tommy is n't longing for a court- 
martial. When the platoon officer or the com- 

127 



Kitchener's Mob 

pany commander makes his hourly rounds, 
flashing his electric pocket lamp before him, he 
is ready with a cheery "Post all correct, sir!" 
He whistles or sings to himself until, at last, he 
hears the platoon sergeant waking the next 
relief by whacking the soles of their boots with 
his rifle butt. 

"Wake up 'ere! Come along, my lads! Your 
sentry-go!" 



CHAPTER IX 

BILLETS 

Cave life had its alleviations, and chief 
among these was the pleasure of anticipating 
our week in reserve. We could look forward to 
this with certainty. During the long stalemate 
on the western front, British military organi- 
zation has been perfected until, in times of 
quiet, it works with the monotonous smoothness 
of a machine. (Even during periods of pro- 
longed and heavy fighting there is but little 
confusion. Only twice, during six months of 
campaigning, did we fail to receive our daily 
post of letters and parcels from England, and 
then, we were told, the delay was due to mine- 
sweeping in the Channel.) With every detail 
of military routine carefully thought out and 
every possible emergency provided for in ad- 
vance, we lived as methodically in the firing- 
line as we had during our months of training 
in England. 

The movements of troops in and out of the 
trenches were excellently arranged and timed. 

129 



Kitchener's Mob 

The outgoing battalion was prepared to move 
back as soon as the "relief" had taken place. 
The trench water-cans had been filled, — an 
act of courtesy between battalions, — the 
dugouts thoroughly cleaned, and the refuse 
buried. The process of "taking over" was a 
very brief one. The sentries of the incoming 
battalion were posted, and listening patrols 
sent out to relieve those of the outgoing battal- 
ion, which then moved down the communica- 
tion trenches, the men happy in the prospect 
of a night of undisturbed sleep. 

Second only to sleep in importance was the 
fortnightly bath. Sometimes we cleansed our- 
selves, as best we could, in muddy little duck 
ponds, populous with frogs and green with 
scum; but oh, the joy when our march ended 
at a military bathhouse ! The Government had 
provided these whenever possible, and for sev- 
eral weeks we were within marching distance 
of one. There we received a fresh change of 
underclothing, and our uniforms were fumi- 
gated while we splashed and scrubbed in great 
vats of clean warm water. The order, "Every- 
body out!" was obeyed with great reluctance, 

130 



Billets 

and usually not until the bath attendants of the 
Army Service Corps enforced it with the cold- 
water hose. Tommy, who has a song for every 
important ceremonial, never sang, "Rule Brit- 
annia" with the enthusiasm which marked his 
rendition of the following chorus : — 

"WhI — ter than the whitewash on the wall! 
Whi — ter than the whitewash on the wall! 
If yer leadin' us to slaughter 
Let us 'ave our soap an' water — first! 
Then we'll be whiter than the whitewash 
on the wall!" 

When out of the firing-line we washed and 
mended our clothing and scraped a week's ac- 
cumulation of mud from our uniforms. Before 
breakfast we were inflicted with the old pun- 
ishment, Swedish drill. "Gott strafe Sweden!" 
Tommy would say as he puffed and perspired 
under a hot August sun, but he was really glad 
that he had no choice but to submit. In the 
trenches there was little opportunity for vigor- 
ous exercise, and our arms and legs became 
stiff with the long inactivity. Throughout the 
mornings we were busy with a multitude of 
duties. Arms and equipment were cleaned 
and inspected, machine guns thoroughly over- 

131 



Kitchener's Mob 

hauled, gas helmets sprayed; and there was 
frequent instruction in bomb-throwing and 
bayonet-fighting in preparation for the day to 
which every soldier looks forward with some 
misgiving, but with increasing confidence — 
the day when the enemy shall be driven out of 
France. 

Classes in grenade-fighting were under the 
supervision of officers of the Royal Engineers. 
In the early days of the war there was but one 
grenade in use, and that a crude afi"air made by 
the soldiers themselves. An empty jam tin was 
filled with explosive and scrap iron, and tightly 
bound with wire. A fuse was attached and the 
bomb was ready for use. But England early 
anticipated the importance which grenade- 
fighting was to play in trench warfare. Her 
experts in explosives were set to work, and by 
the time we were ready for active service, ten 
or a dozen varieties of bombs were in use, all 
of them made in the munition factories in Eng- 
land. The "hairbrush," the "lemon bomb," 
the "cricket ball," and the "policeman's trun- 
cheon " were the most important of these, all 
of them so-called because of their resemblance 

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Billets 

to the articles for which they were named. The 
first three were exploded by a time-fuse set for 
from three to five seconds. The fourth was a 
percussion bomb, which had long cloth stream- 
ers fastened to the handle to insure greater ac- 
curacy in throwing. The men became remark- 
ably accurate at a distance of thirty to forty 
yards. Old cricketers were especially good, 
for the bomb must be thrown overhand, with 
a full-arm movement. 

Instruction in bayonet-fighting was made 
as realistic as possible. Upon a given signal, we 
rushed forward, jumping in and out of succes- 
sive lines of trenches, where dummy figures — • 
clad in the uniforms of German foot soldiers, to 
give zest to the game — took our blades both 
front and rear with conciliatory indifference. 

In the afternoon Tommy's time was his own. 
He could sleep, or wander along the country 
roads, — within a prescribed area, — or, which 
was more often the case, indulge in those games 
of chance which were as the breath of life to 
him. Pay-day was the event of the week in 
billets because it gave him the wherewithal to 
satisfy the promptings of his sporting blood. 

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Kitchener's Mob 

Our fortnightly allowance of from five to ten 
francs was not a princely sum; but in pennies 
and halfpennies, it was quite enough to pro- 
vide many hours of absorbing amusement. 
Tommy gambled because he could not help it. 
When he had no money he wagered his allowance 
of cigarettes or his share of the daily jam ration. 
I believe that the appeal which war made to 
him was largely one to his sporting instincts. 
Life and Death were playing stakes for his soul 
with the betting odds about even. 

The most interesting feature of our life in 
billets was the contact which it gave us with 
the civilian population who remained in the war 
zone, either because they had no place else to go, 
or because of that indomitable, unconquerable 
spirit which is characteristic of the French. 
There are few British soldiers along the western 
front who do not have memories of the heroic 
mothers who clung to their ruined homes as 
long as there was a wall standing. It was one of 
these who summed up for me, in five words, all 
the heart-breaking tragedy of war. 

She kept a little shop, in Armentieres, on one 
of the streets leading to the firing-line. We 

134 



Billets 

often stopped there, when going up to the 
trenches, to buy loaves of delicious French 
bread. She had candles for sale as well, and 
chocolate, and packets of stationery. Her stock 
was exhausted daily, and in some way replen- 
ished daily. I think she made long journeys to 
the other side of the town, bringing back fresh 
supplies in a pushcart which stood outside 
her door. Her cottage, which was less than a 
mile from our first-line trenches, was partly 
in ruins. I could n't understand her being there 
in such danger. Evidently it was with the con- 
sent of the military authorities. There were 
other women living on the same street; but 
somehow, she was different from the others. 
There was a spiritual fineness about her which 
impressed one at once. Her eyes were dry as 
though the tears had been drained from them, 
to the last drop, long ago. 

One day, calling for a packet of candles, I 
found her standing at the barricaded window 
which looks toward the trenches, and the deso- 
late towns and villages back of the German 
lines. My curiosity got the better of my court- 
esy, and I asked her, in my poor French, why 

I3S 



Kitchener's Mob 

she was living there. She was silent for a mo- 
ment, and then she pointed toward that part 
of France which was on the other side of the 
world to us. 

"Monsieur! Mes enfants! La-bas!" 

Her children were over there, or had been at 
the outbreak of the war. That is all that she 
told me of her story, and I would have been a 
beast to have asked more. In some way she had 
become separated from them, and for nearly a 
year she had been watching there, not knowing 
whether her little family was living or dead. 

To many of the soldiers she was just a plain, 
thrifty little Frenchwoman who knew not the 
meaning of fear, willing to risk her life daily, 
that she might put by something for the long 
hard years which would follow the war. To 
me she is the Spirit of France, splendid, superb 
France. But more than this she is the Spirit 
of Mother-love which wars can never alter. 

Strangely enough, I had not thought of the 
firing-line as a boundary, a limit, during all those 
weeks of trench warfare. Henceforth it had a 
new meaning for me. I realized how completely 
it cut Europe in half, separating friends and rel- 

136 



Billets 

atives as thousands of miles of ocean could not 
have done. Roads crossed from one side to the 
other, but they were barricaded with sandbags 
and barbed-wire entanglements. At night they 
were deluged with shrapnel and the cobble- 
stones were chipped and scarred with machine- 
gun bullets. 

Tommy had a ready sympathy for the women 
and children who lived near the trenches. I 
remember many incidents which illustrate 
abundantly his quick understanding of the 
hardship and danger of their lives. Once, at 
Armentieres, we were marching to the baths, 
when the German artillery were shelling the 
town in the usual hit-or-miss fashion. The 
enemy knew, of course, that many of our troops 
in reserve were billeted there, and they searched 
for them daily. Doubtless they would have de- 
stroyed the town long ago had it not been for 
the fact that Lille, one of their own most im- 
portant bases, Is within such easy range of our 
batteries. As it was, they bombarded It as 
heavily as they dared, and on this particular 
morning, they were sending them over too fre- 
quently for comfort. 

137 



Kitchener's Mob 

Some of the shells were exploding close to 
our line of march, but the boys tramped along 
with that nonchalant air which they assume 
in times of danger. One immense shell struck 
an empty house less than a block away and sent 
the masonry flying in every direction. The cloud 
of brick dust shone like gold in the sun. A mo- 
ment later, a fleshy peasant woman, wearing 
wooden shoes, turned out of an adjoining street 
and ran awkwardly toward the scene of the ex- 
plosion. Her movements were so clumsy and 
slow, in proportion to the great exertion she 
was making, that at any other time the sight 
would have been ludicrous. Now it was inevit- 
able that such a sight should first appeal to 
Tommy's sense of humor, and thoughtlessly 
the boys started laughing and shouting at 
her. 

"Go it, old dear! Yer makin' a grand race!" 

"Two to one on Liza!" 

"The other w'y? ma! That's the wrong 
direction! Yer runnin' right into 'em!" 

She gave no heed, and a moment later we saw 
her gather up a little girl from a doorstep, hug- 
ging and comforting her, and shielding her with 

138 



Billets 

her body, instinctively, at the sound of an- 
other exploding shell. The laughter in the ranks 
stopped as though every man had been sud- 
denly struck dumb. 

They were courageous, those women in the 
firing-line. Their thoughts were always for 
their husbands and sons and brothers who were 
fighting side by side with us. Meanwhile, they 
kept their little shops and estaminets open for 
the soldiers' trade and made a brave show of 
living in the old way. In Armentieres a few 
old men lent their aid in keeping up the pre- 
tense, but the feeble little trickle of civilian life 
made scarcely an impression in the broad cur- 
rent of military activity. A solitary postman, 
with a mere handful of letters, made his morn- 
ing rounds of echoing streets, and a bent old 
man with newspapers hobbled slowly along 
the Rue Sadi-Carnot shouting, "Le Matin! Le 
Journal ! " to boarded windows and bolted doors. 
Meanwhile, we marched back and forth between 
billets in the town and trenches just outside. 
And the last thing which we saw upon leaving 
the town, and the first upon returning, was 
the lengthening row of new-made graves close 

139 



Kitchener's Mob 

to a sunny wall in the garden of the ruined con- 
vent. It was a pathetic little burial plot, 
filled with the bodies of women and children 
who had been killed in German bombardments 
of the town. 

And thus for more than three months, while 
we were waiting for Fritzie to "come out," we 
adapted ourselves to the changing conditions 
of trench life and trench warfare, with a read- 
iness which surprised and gratified us. Our 
very practical training in England had prepared 
us, in a measure, for simple and primitive liv- 
ing. But even with such preparation we had 
constantly to revise downward our standards. 
We lived without comforts which formerly we 
had regarded as absolutely essential. We lived 
a life so crude and rough that our army experi- 
ences in England seemed Utopian by compari- 
son. But we throve splendidly. A government, 
paternalistic in its solicitude for our welfare, 
had schooled our bodies to withstand hardships 
and to endure privations. In England we had 
been inoculated and vaccinated whether we 
would or no, and the result was that fevers 
were practically non-existent in the trenches, 

140 



Billets 

What little sickness there was was due to In- 
clement weather rather than to unsanitary con- 
ditions. 

Although there were sad gaps in our ranks, 
the trench and camp fevers prevalent in other 
wars were not responsible for them. Bullets, 
shells, and bombs took their toll day by day, 
but so gradually that we had been given time 
to forget that we had ever known the security 
of civilian life. We were soon to experience the 
indescribable horrors of modern warfare at its 
worst; to be living from morning until evening 
and from dusk to dawn, looking upon a new day 
with a feeling of wonder that we had survived 
so long. 

About the middle of September it became 
clear to us that the big drive was at hand. 
There was increased artillery activity along 
the entire front. The men noted with great 
satisfaction that the shells from our own bat- 
teries were of larger calibre. This was a welcome 
indication that England was at last meeting the 
longfelt need for high explosives. 

"Lloyd George ain't been asleep," some 
unshaven seer would say, nodding his head 

141 



Kitchener's Mob 

wisely. "'E's a long w'ile gettin' ready, but 
w'en 'e is ready, there's suthin' a-go'n' to 
drop!" 

There was a feeling of excitement every- 
where. The men looked to their rifles with 
greater Interest. They examined more carefully 
their bandoliers of ammunition and their gas 
helmets ; and they were thoughtful about keep- 
ing their metal pocket mirrors and their cigar- 
ette cases in their left-hand breast pockets, for 
any Tommy can tell you of miraculous escapes 
from death due to such a protective armoring 
over the heart. 

The thunder of guns increased with every 
passing day. The fire appeared to be evenly 
distributed over many miles of frontage. In 
moments of comparative quiet along our sector, 
we could hear them muttering and rumbling 
miles away to our right and left. We awaited 
developments with the greatest impatience, 
for we knew that this general bombardment 
was but a preliminary one for the purpose of 
concealing, until the last moment, the plan of 
attack, the portion of the front where the great 
artillery concentration would be made and the 

142 



Billets 

infantry assault pushed home. Then came sud- 
den orders to move. Within twenty-four hours 
the roads were filled with the incoming troops 
of a new division. We made a rapid march to 
a rail-head, entrained, and were soon moving 
southward by an indirect route; southward, 
toward the sound of the guns, to take an in- 
conspicuous part in the battle at Loos. 



CHAPTER X 

NEW LODGINGS 
I. MOVING IN 

We were wet and tired and cold and hungry, 
for we had left the train miles back of the fir- 
ing-line and had been marching through the 
rain since early morning; but, as the sergeant 
said, "A bloke standin' by the side o' the road, 
watchin' this 'ere column pass, would think we 
was a-go'n' to a Sunday-school picnic." The 
roads were filled with endless processions of 
singing, shouting soldiers. Seen from a distance 
the long columns gave the appearance of im- 
posing strength. One thought of them as bat- 
talions, brigades, divisions, cohesive parts of a 
great fighting machine. But when our lines of 
march crossed, when we halted to make way 
for each other, what an absorbing pageant of 
personality! Each rank was a series of intimate 
pictures. Everywhere there was laughing, sing- 
ing, a merry minstrelsy of mouth-organs. 

The jollity in my own part of the line was 
doubtless a picture in little of what was hap- 

144 



New Lodgings 

pening elsewhere. We were anticipating the 
exciting times just at hand. Mac, who was 
blown to pieces by a shell a few hours later, 
was dancing in and out of the ranks singing, — 

"Oh! Won't it be joyful! 
Oh! Won't it be joyful!" 

Preston, who was killed at the same time, threw 
his rifle in the air and caught it again in sheer 
excess of animal spirits. Three rollicking lads, 
all of whom we buried during the week in the 
same shell hole under the same wooden cross, 
stumbled with an exaggerated show of utter 
weariness singing, — 

"We never knew till now how muddy mud is, 
We never knew how muddy mud could be." 

And little Charley Harrison, who had fibbed 
bravely about his age to the recruiting officers, 
trudged contentedly along, his rifle slung jaunt- 
ily over his shoulder, and munched army bis- 
cuit with all the relish of an old campaigner. 
Several days later he said good-bye to us, and 
made the journey back the same road, this 
time in a motor ambulance; and as I write, he 
is hobbling about a London hospital ward, one 
trouser leg pathetically empty. 

145 



Kitchener's Mob 

I remember that march in the light of our 
later experiences, in the light of the official 
report of the total British casualties at Loos: 
sixty thousand British lads killed, wounded, 
and missing. Marching four abreast, a column 
of casualties miles in length. I see them plod- 
ding light-heartedly through the mud as they 
did on that gray September day, their faces 
wet with the rain, " an' a bloke standin' by the 
side of the road would think they was a-go'n* 
to a Sunday-school picnic." 

The sergeant was in a talkative mood. 

"Lissen to them guns barkin'! We're in for 
It this time, straight!" 

Then, turning to the men behind, — 

"'Ave you got yer wills made out, you lads? 
You're a-go'n' to see a scrap presently, an' it 
ain't a-go'n' to be no flea-bite, I give you my 
word!" 

"Right you are, sergeant! I'm leavin' me 
razor to 'is Majesty. 'Ope 'e'll tyke the 'int." 

"Strike me pink, sergeant! You gettin' cold 
feet?" 

"Less sing 'im, ^I want to go 'ome.' Get 'im 
to cryin' like a baby." 

146 



New Lodgings 



"Ware's yer mouth-organ, Ginger?" 
"Right-0! Myke it weepy now! Slow 
march!" 

"I — want to go 'omel 
I — want to go 'ome! 

Jack-Johnsons, coal-boxes, and shrapnel, oh. Lor'! 
I don't want to go in the trenches no more. 
Send me across the sea 
Were the Allemand can't shoot me. 
Oh, my! I don't want to die! 
I — want to go 'ome!" 

It IS one of the most plaintive and yearning 
of soldiers' songs. Jack-Johnsons and coal- 
boxes are two greatly dreaded types of high 
explosive shells which Tommy would much 
rather sing about than meet. i 

Wite," the sergeant said, smiling grimly; 

just wite till we reach the end o' this 'ere 
march ! You '11 be a-singin' that song out o' the 
other side o' yer faces." 

We halted in the evening at a little mining 
village, and were billeted for the night in houses, 
stables, and even in the water-soaked fields, 
for there was not sufficient accommodation for 
all of us. With a dozen of my comrades I slept 
on the floor in the kitchen of a miner's cottage, 

147 






Kitchener's Mob 

and listened, far into the night, to the constant 
procession of motor ambulances, the tramp of 
marching feet, the thunder of guns, the rattle 
of windows, and the sound of breaking glass. 

The following day we spent in cleaning our 
rifles, which were caked with rust, and in wash- 
ing our clothes. We had to put these, still wet, 
into our packs, for at dusk we fell in, in column 
of route, along the village street, when our offi- 
cers told us what was before us. I remember 
how vividly and honestly one of them described 
the situation. 

"Listen carefully, men. We are moving off 
in a few moments, to take over captured Ger- 
man trenches on the left of Loos. No one knows 
yet just how the land lies there. The reports 
we have had are confused and rather conflict- 
ing. The boys you are going to relieve have 
been having a hard time. The trenches are full 
of dead. Those who are left are worn out with 
the strain, and they need sleep. They won't 
care to stop long after you come in, so you must 
not expect much information from them. You 
will have to find out things for yourselves. But 
I know you well enough to feel certain that you 

148 



New Lodgings 

will. From now on you'll not have it easy. 
You will have to sit tight under a heavy fire 
from the German batteries. You will have to 
repulse counter-attacks, for they will make 
every effort to retake those trenches. But re- 
member! You're British soldiers! Whatever 
happens you've got to hang on!" 

We marched down a road nearly a foot deep 
in mud. It had been churned to a thick paste 
by thousands of feet and all the heavy wheel 
traffic incident to the business of war. The rain 
was still coming down steadily, and it was 
pitch dark, except for the reflected light, on the 
low-hanging clouds, of the flashes from the 
guns of our batteries and those of the bursting 
shells of the enemy. We halted frequently, to 
make way for long files of ambulances which 
moved as rapidly as the darkness and the aw- 
ful condition of the roads would permit. I 
counted twenty of them during one halt, and 
then stopped, thinking of the pain of the poor 
fellows inside, their wounds wrenched and 
torn by the constant pitching and jolting. We 
had vivid glimpses of them by the light from 
flashing guns, and of the Red Cross attendants 

149 



Kitchener's Mob 

at the rear of the cars, steadying the upper 
tiers of stretchers on either side. The heavy 
Garrison artillery was by this time far behind 
us. The big shells went over with a hollow 
roar like the sound of an express train heard at 
a distance. Field artillery was concealed In the 
ruins of houses on every side. The guns were 
firing at a tremendous rate, the shells exploding 
several miles away with a sound of jarring 
thunder claps. 

In addition to the ambulances there was a 
constant stream of outgoing traffic of other 
kinds: dispatch riders on motor cycles, feeling 
their way cautiously along the side of the road; 
ammunition supply and battalion transport 
wagons, the horses rearing and plunging in 
the darkness. We approached a crossroad and 
halted to make way for some batteries of field 
pieces moving to new positions. They went by 
on a slippery cobbled road, the horses at a dead 
gallop. In the red llghtenlngs of heavy-gun 
fire they looked like a series of splendid sculp- 
tured groups. 

We moved on and halted, moved on again, 
stumbled into ditches to get out of the way of 

150 



New Lodgings 

headquarters cars and motor lorries, jumped 
up and pushed on. Every step through the 
thick mud was taken with an effort. We fre- 
quently lost touch with the troops ahead of us 
and would have to march at the double in order 
to catch up. I was fast getting into that de- 
spondent, despairing frame of mind which often 
follows great physical weariness, when I remem- 
bered a bit of wisdom out of a book by William 
James which I had read several years before. 
He had said, in effect, that men have layers of 
energy, reserves of nervous force, which they are 
rarely called upon to use, but which are, never- 
theless, assets of great value in times of strain. 
I had occasion to test the truth of this state- 
ment during that night march, and at intervals 
later, when I felt that I had reached the end 
of my resources of strength. And I found it to 
be practical wisdom which stood me in good 
stead on more than one occasion. 

We halted to wait for our trench guides at 
the village of Vermelles, about three miles back 
of our lines. The men lay down thankfully in 
the mud and many were soon asleep despite the 
terrific noise. Our batteries, concealed in the 

151 



Kitchener's Mob 

ruins of houses, were keeping up a steady fire 
and the German guns were replying almost as 
hotly. The weird flashes lit up the shattered 
walls with a fascinating, bizarre effect. By their 
light, I saw men lying with their heads thrown 
back over their pack-sacks^ their rifles leaning 
across their bodies; others standing in attitudes 
of suspended animation. The noise was deafen- 
ing. One was thrown entirely upon his own 
resources for comfort and companionship, for 
It was impossible to converse. While we were 
waiting for the order to move, a homeless dog 
put his cold nose into my hand. I patted him 
and he crept up close beside me. Every muscle 
in his body was quivering. I wanted to console 
him in his own language. But I knew very little 
French, and I should have had to shout into 
his ear at the top of my voice to have made my- 
self heard. When we marched on I lost him. 
And I never saw him again. 

There was a further march of two and a half 
miles over open country, the scene of the great 
battle. The ground was a maze of abandoned 
trenches and was pitted with shell holes. The 
clay was so slippery and we were so heavily 

152 



New Lodgings 

loaded that we fell down at every step. Some of 
the boys told me afterward that I cursed like 
blue blazes all the way up. I was not conscious 
of this, but I can readily understand that it 
may have been true. At any rate, as a result 
of that march, I lost what reputation I had for 
being temperate in the use of profanity. 

We crossed what had been the first line of 
British trenches, which marked the starting- 
point of the advance, and from there the 
ground was covered with the bodies of our com- 
rades, men who had " done their bit," as Tommy 
says, and would never go home again. Some 
were huddled in pathetic little groups of two 
or three as they might have crept together for 
companionship before they died. Some were 
lying face downward just as they had fallen. 
Others in attitudes revealing dreadful suffering. 
Many were hanging upon the tangles of Ger- 
man barbed wire which the heaviest of bom- 
bardments never completely destroys. We saw 
them only by the light of distant trench rockets 
and stumbled on them and over them when 
the darkness returned. 

It is an unpleasant experience, marching 

153 



Kitchener's Mob 

under fire, on top of the ground, even though it 
is dark and the enemy is shelling haphazardly. 
We machine gunners were always heavily 
loaded. In addition to the usual infantryman's 
burden, we had our machine guns to carry, and 
our ammunition, water supply, tools and instru- 
ments. We were very eager to get under cover, 
but we had to go slowly. By the time we 
reached our trench we were nearly exhausted. 
The men whom we were to relieve were 
packed up, ready to move out, when we arrived. 
We threw our rifles and equipment on the par- 
apet and stood close to the side of the trench 
to allow them to pass. They were cased in 
mud. Their faces, which I saw by the glow of 
matches or lighted cigarettes, were haggard 
and worn. A week's growth of beard gave them 
a wild and barbaric appearance. They talked 
eagerly. They were hysterically cheerful; vol- 
uble from sheer nervous reaction. They had 
the prospect of getting away for a little while 
from the sickening horrors : the sight of maimed 
and shattered bodies, the deafening noise, the 
nauseating odor of decaying flesh. As they 
moved out there were the usual conversations 

154 






New Lodgings 

which take place between incoming and out- 
going troops. 

"Wot sort of a week you 'ad, mate?" 

"It ain't been a week, son; it's been a life- 
time!" 

"Lucky fer us you blokes come in just w'en 
you did. We've about reached the limit." 
'Ow far we got to go fer water?" 
'Bout two miles. Awful journey! Tyke 
you all night to do it. You got to stop every 
minute, they's so much traffic along that 
trench. Go down Stanley Road about five 
'unnerd yards, turn off to yer left on Essex 
Alley, then yer first right. Brings you right 
out by the 'ouse w'ere the pump is." 

"'Ere's a straight tip! Send yer water 
fatigue down early in the mornin' : three o'clock 
at the latest, They's thousands usin' that 
well an' she goes dry arter a little w'ile." 

"You blokes want any souvenirs, all you got 
to do is pick 'em up : 'elmets, revolvers, rifles, 
German di'ries. You wite till mornin'. You'll 
see plenty." 

"Is this the last line o' Fritzie's trenches?'* 
Can't tell you, mate. All we know is, we 

155 



ci 



Kitchener's Mob 

got 'ere some'ow an' we been a-'oldin' on. My 
Gawd! It's been awful! They calmed down a 
bit to-night. You blokes is lucky comin' in 
just w'en you did." 

"I ain't got a pal left out o' my section. 
You'll see some of 'em. We ain't 'ad time to 
bury 'em." 

They were soon gone and we were left in 
Ignorance of the situation. We knew only ap- 
proximately the direction of the living enemy 
and the dead spoke to us only in dumb show, 
telling us unspeakable things about the horrors 
of modern warfare. 

Fortunately for us, the fire of the German 
batteries, during our first night in captured 
trenches, was directed chiefly upon positions 
to our right and left. The shells from our own 
batteries were exploding far in advance of our 
sector of trench, and we judged from this that 
we were holding what had been the enemy's 
last line, and that the British artillery were 
shelling the line along which they would dig 
themselves in anew. We felt more certain of 
this later in the night when working parties 
were sent from the battalion to a point twelve 

156 



New Lodgings 

hundred yards in front of the trenches we were 
then holding. They were to dig a new hne there, 
to connect with intrenchments which had been 
pushed forward on either side of us. 

At daybreak we learned that we were 
slightly to the left of Hill 70. Hulluch, a small 
village still in possession of the Germans, was 
to our left front. Midway between Hill 70 and 
Hulluch and immediately to the front of our 
position, there was a long stretch of open coun- 
try which sloped gently forward for six or 
eight hundred yards, and then rose gradually 
toward the sky-line. In the first assault the 
British troops had pushed on past the trenches 
we were holding and had advanced up the op- 
posite slope, nearly a mile farther on. There 
they started to dig themselves in, but an un- 
fortunate delay in getting forward had given 
the enemy time to collect a strong force of local 
reserves behind his second line, which was 
several hundred yards beyond. So heavy a fire 
had been concentrated upon them that the 
British troops had been forced to retire to the 
line we were then occupying. They had met 
with heavy losses both in advancing and re- 

.157 



Kitchener's Mob 

tiring, and the ground in front of us for nearly 
a mile was strewn with bodies. We did not 
learn all of this at once. We knew nothing of 
our exact position during the first night, but 
as there appeared to be no enemy within 
striking distance of our immediate front, we 
stood on the firing-benches vainly trying to 
get our bearings. About one o'clock, we wit- 
nessed the fascinating spectacle of a counter- 
attack at night. 

It came with the dramatic suddenness, the 
striking spectacular display, of a motion-picture 
battle. The pictorial eff"ect seemed extrava- 
gantly overdrawn. 

There was a sudden hurricane of rifle and 
machine-gun fire, and in an instant all the 
desolate landscape was revealed under the 
light of innumerable trench rockets. We saw 
the enemy advancing in irregular lines to the 
attack. They were exposed to a pitiless in- 
fantry fire. I could follow the curve of our 
trenches on the left by the almost solid sheet 
of flame issuing from the rifles of our comrades 
against whom the assault was launched. The 
artillery ranged upon the advancing lines at 

158 



New Lodgings 

once, and the air was filled with the roar of 
bursting shells and the melancholy zvhing-g-g-g 
of flying shrapnel. 

I did not believe that any one could cross 
that fire-swept area alive, but before many 
moments we heard the staccato of bursting 
bombs and hand grenades which meant that 
some of the enemy, at least, were within strik- 
ing distance. There was a sharp crescendo of 
deafening sound, then, gradually, the firing 
ceased, and word came down the line, " Count- 
er-attack against the Guards; and jolly 

well beaten off too." Another was attempted 
before daybreak, and again the same torrent 
of lead, the same hideous uproar, the same sick- 
ening smell of lyddite, the same ghastly noon- 
day eifect, the same gradual silence, and the 
same result. 

II. DAMAGED TRENCHES 

The brief respite which we enjoyed during 
our first night soon came to an end. We were 
given time, however, to make our trenches 
tenable. Early the following morning we set 
to work removing the wreckage of human 

159 



Kitchener's Mob 

bodies. Never before had death revealed Itself 
so terribly to us. Many of the men had been 
literally blown to pieces, and it was necessary 
to gather the fragments in blankets. For weeks 
afterward we had to eat and sleep and work and 
think among such awful sights. We became 
hardened to them finally. It was absolutely 
essential that we should. 

The trenches and dugouts had been battered 
to pieces by the British artillery fire before the 
infantry assault, and since their capture the 
work of destruction had been carried on by 
the German gunners. Even in their wrecked 
condition we could see how skillfully they had 
been constructed. No labor had been spared in 
making them as nearly shell-proof and as com- 
fortable for living quarters as it is possible for 
such earthworks to be. The ground here was 
unusually favorable. Under a clayish surface 
soil, there was a stratum of solid chalk. Advan- 
tage of this had been taken by the German en- 
gineers who must have planned and supervised 
the work. Many of the shell-proof dugouts 
were fifteen and even twenty feet below the 
surface of the ground. Entrance to these was 

1 60 



New Lodgings 

made in the front wall of the trench on a level 
with the floor. Stairways just large enough to 
permit the passage of a man's body led down 
to them. The roofs were reinforced with heavy 
timbers. They were so strongly built through- 
out that most of them were intact, although 
the passageways leading up to the trench were 
choked with loose earth. 

There were larger surface dugouts with floors 
but slightly lower than that of the trench. 
These were evidently built for living quarters 
in times of comparative quiet. Many of them 
were six feet wide and from twenty to thirty 
feet long, and quite palaces compared to the 
wretched little "funk-holes" to which we had 
been accustomed. They were roofed with logs 
a foot or more in diameter placed close together 
and one on top of the other in tiers of three, 
with a covering of earth three or four feet thick. 
But although they were solidly built they had 
not been proof against the rain of high explo- 
sives. Many of them were in ruins, the logs 
splintered like kindling wood and strewn far 
and wide over the ground. 

We found several dugouts, evidently offi- 

i6i 



Kitchener's Mob 

cers' quarters, which were almost luxuriously 
furnished. There were rugs for the wooden 
floors and pictures and mirrors for the walls; 
and in each of them there was the joUiest little 
stove with a removable lid. We discovered one 
of these underground palaces at the end of a 
blind alley leading off from the main trench. It 
was at least fifteen feet underground, with two 
stairways leading down to it, so that if escape 
was cut off in one direction, it was still possible 
to get out on the other side. We immediately 
took] possession, built a roaring fire, and were 
soon passing canteens of hot tea around the 
circle. Life was worth while again. We all 
agreed that there were less comfortable places 
in which to have breakfast on rainy autumn 
mornings than German officers' dug-outs. 

The haste with which the Germans aban- 
doned their trenches was evidenced by the 
amount of war material which they left behind. 
We found two machine guns and a great deal 
of small-arms ammunition in our own limited 
sector of frontage. Rifles, intrenching tools, 
haversacks, canteens, greatcoats, bayonets were 
scattered everywhere. All of this material was 

162 



New Lodgings 

of the very best. Canteens, water-bottles, and 
small frying-pans were made of aluminum and 
most ingeniously fashioned to make them less 
bulky for carrying. Some of the bayonets were 
saw-edged. We found three of these needlessly 
cruel weapons in a dugout which bore the fol- 
lowing inscription over the door : — 

'^Gott tref herein, Bring^ glilck herein.^^ 
It was an interesting commentary on German 
character. Tommy Atkins never writes in- 
scriptions of a religious nature over the door- 
way of his splinter-roof shelter. Neither does he 
file a saw edge on his bayonet. 

We found many letters, picture post-cards, 
and newspapers; among the latter, one called 
the "Krieg-Zeitung," published at Lille for 
the soldiers in the field, and filled with glowing 
accounts of battles fought by the ever vic- 
torious German armies. 

' Death comes swiftly in war. One's life hangs 
by a thread. The most trivial circumstance 
saves or destroys. Mac came into the half- 
ruined dugout where the off-duty machine 
gunners were making tea over a fire of splin- 
tered logs. 

163 



Kitchener's Mob 

"Jamie," he said, "take my place at sentry 
for a few minutes, will you ? I Ve lost my water- 
bottle. It's 'ere in the dugout somew'ere. I'll 
be only a minute." 

I went out to the gun position a few yards 
away, and immediately afterward the Germans 
began a bombardment of our line. One's ear 
becomes exact in distinguishing the size of 
shells by the sound which they make in travel- 
ing through the air; and it is possible to judge 
the direction and the probable place of their 
fall. Two of us stood by the machine gun. We 
heard at the same time the sound which we 
knew meant danger, possibly death. It was 
the awful whistling roar of a high explosive. 
We dropped to the floor of the trench at once. 
The explosion blackened our faces with lyddite 
and half-blinded us. The dugout which I had 
left less than a moment ago was a mass of 
wreckage. Seven of our comrades were inside. 

One of them crawled out, pulling himself 
along with one arm. The other arm was terribly 
crushed and one leg was hanging by a tendon 
and a few shreds of flesh. 

"My God, boys! Look wot they did to me!" 

164 



New Lodgings 

He kept saying it over and over while we cut 
the cords from our bandoliers, tied them about 
his leg and arm and twisted them up to stop the 
flow of blood. He was a fine, healthy lad. A 
moment before he had been telling us what he 
was going to do when we went home on fur- 
lough. Now his face was the color of ashes, his 
voice grew weaker and weaker, and he died 
while we were working over him. 

High explosive shells were bursting all along 
the line. Great masses of earth and chalk were 
blown in on top of men seeking protection where 
there was none. The ground rocked like so much 
pasteboard. I heard frantic cries for "Picks and 
shovels ! " " Stretcher-bearers ! Stretcher-bearers 
this way, for God's sake!" The voices sounded 
as weak and futile as the squeaking of rats in a 
thunderstorm. 

When the bombardment began, all off-duty 
men were ordered into the deepest of the shell- 
proof dugouts, where they were really quite 
safe. But those English lads were not cowards. 
Orders or no orders, they came out to the rescue 
of their comrades. They worked without a 
thought of their own danger. I felt actually 

i6s 



Kitchener's Mob 

happy, for I was witnessing splendid heroic 
things. It was an experience which gave one a 
new and unshakable faith in his fellows. 

The sergeant and I rushed into the ruins of 
our machine-gun dugout. The roof still held in 
one place. There we found Mac, his head split 
in two as though it had been done with an 
axe. Gardner's head was blown completely 
off, and his body was so terribly mangled that 
we did not know until later who he was. Pres- 
ton was lying on his back with a great jagged, 
blood-stained hole through his tunic. Bert 
Powel was so badly hurt that we exhausted our 
supply of field dressings in bandaging him. We 
found little Charlie Harrison lying close to the 
side of the wall, gazing at his crushed foot with 
a look of incredulity and horror pitiful to see. 
One of the men gave him first aid with all the 
deftness and tenderness of a woman. 

The rest of us dug hurriedly into a great 
heap of earth at the other end of the shelter. 
We quickly uncovered Walter, a lad who had 
kept us laughing at his drollery on many a 
rainy night. The earth had been heaped loosely 
on him and he was still conscious. 

i66 



New Lodgings 



"Good old boys," he said weakly; "I was 
about done for." 

In our haste we dislodged another heap of 
earth which completely buried him again, and 
it seemed a lifetime before we were able to 
remove it. I have never seen a finer display of 
pure grit than Walter's. 

"Easy now!" he said. "Can't feel anything 
below me waist. I think I 'm 'urt down there." 

We worked as swiftly and as carefully as we 
could. We knew that he was badly wounded, 
for the earth was soaked with blood; but when 
we saw, we turned away sick with horror. 
Fortunately, he lost consciousness while we 
were trying to disentangle him from the fallen 
timbers, and he died on the way to the field 
dressing-station. Of the seven lads in the dug- 
out, three were killed outright,, three died 
within half an hour, and one escaped with a 
crushed foot which had to be amputated at the 
field hospital. 

What had happened to our little group was 
happening to others along the entire line. 
Americans may have read of the bombardment 
which took place that autumn morning. The 

167 



Kitchener's Mob 

dispatches, I believe, described it with the 
usual official brevity, giving all the information 
really necessary from the point of view of the 
general public. 

"Along the Loos -La Bassee sector there 
was a lively artillery action. We demolished 
some earthworks in the vicinity of Hulluch. 
Some of our trenches near Hill 70 were dam- 
aged." 

"Damaged!" It was a guarded admission. 
Our line was a shambles of loose earth and 
splintered logs. At some places it was difficult 
to see just where the trench had been. Had the 
Germans launched a counter-attack immedi- 
ately after the bombardment, we should have 
had difficulty in holding the position. But it 
was only what Tommy called "a big 'ap'orth 
o' 'ate." No attempt was made to follow up 
the advantage, and we at once set to work re- 
building. The loose earth had to be put into 
sandbags, the parapets mended, the holes, 
blasted out by shells, filled in. 

The worst of it was that we could not get 
away from the sight of the mangled bodies of 
our comrades. Arms and legs stuck out of the 

168 



New Lodgings 

wreckage, and on every side we saw distorted 
human faces, the faces of men we had known, 
with whom we had Hved and shared hardships 
and dangers for months past. Those who have 
never lived through experiences of this sort 
cannot possibly know the horror of them. It 
is not in the heat of battle that men lose their 
reason. Battle frenzy is, perhaps, a temporary 
madness. The real danger comes when the 
strain is relaxed. Men look about them and 
see the bodies of their comrades torn to pieces 
as though they had been hacked and butchered 
by fiends. One thinks of the human body as 
inviolate, a beautiful and sacred thing. The 
sight of it dismembered or disemboweled, 
trampled in the bottom of a trench, smeared 
with blood and filth, is so revolting as to be 
hardly endurable. 

And yet, we had to endure it. We could not 
escape it. Whichever way we looked, there were 
the dead. Worse even than the sight of dead 
men were the groans and entreaties of those 
lying wounded in the trenches waiting to be 
taken back to the dressing-stations. 

"I'm shot through the stomach, matey! 

169 



Kitchener's Mob 

Can't you get me back to the ambulance? 
Ain't they some way you can get me back out 
o'this?" 

"Stick it, old lad! You won't 'ave long to 
wite. They'll be some of the Red Cross along 
'ere in a jiffy now." 

"Give me a lift, boys, can't you? Look at 
my leg! Do you think it'll 'ave to come off? 
Maybe they could save it if I could get to 'os- 
pital in time! Won't some of you give me a 
lift? I can 'obble along with a little 'elp." 

"Don't you fret, sonny! You're a-go'n' to 
ride back in a stretcher presently. Keep yer 
courage up a little w'ile longer." 

Some of the men, in their suffering, forgot 
every one but themselves, and it was not strange 
that they should. Others, with more iron in 
their natures, endured fearful agony in silence. 
During memorable half- hours, filled with dan- 
ger and death, many of my gross misjudgments 
of character were made clear to me. Men whom 
no one had credited with heroic qualities re- 
vealed them. Others failed rather pitiably to 
live up to one's expectations. It seemed to me 
that there was strength or weakness in men, 

170 



New Lodgings^ 

quite apart from their real selves, for which 
they were in no way responsible; but doubtless 
It had always been there, waiting to be called 
forth at just such crucial times. 

During the afternoon I heard for the first 
time the hysterical cry of a man whose nerve 
had given way. He picked up an arm and 
threw it far out in front of the trenches, shout- 
ing as he did so in a way that made one's blood 
run cold. Then he sat down and started crying 
and moaning. He was taken back to the rear, 
one of the saddest of casualties in a war of in- 
conceivable horrors. I heard of many instances 
of nervous breakdown, but I witnessed sur- 
prisingly few of them. Men were often badly 
shaken and trembled from head to foot. Usu- 
ally they pulled themselves together under the 
taunts of their less susceptible comrades. 

III. RISSOLES AND A REQUIEM 

At the close of a gloomy October day, six 
unshaven, mud-encrusted machine gunners, 
the surviving members of two teams, were 
gathered at the C Company gun emplacement. 
D Company's gun had been destroyed by a 

171 



Kitchener's Mob 

shell, and so we had joined forces here in front 
of the wrecked dugout, and were waiting for 
night when we could bury our dead comrades. 
A fine drenching rain was falling. We sat with 
our waterproof sheets thrown over our shoul- 
ders and our knees drawn up to our chins, that 
we might conserve the damp warmth of our 
bodies. No one spoke. No reference was made 
to our dead comrades who were lying there so 
close that we could almost touch them from 
where we sat. Nevertheless, I believe that we 
were all thinking of them, however unwillingly. 
I tried to see them as they were only a few 
hours before. I tried to remember the sound of 
their voices, how they had laughed; but I could 
think only of the appearance of their mutilated 
bodies. 

On a dreary autumn evening one's thoughts 
often take a melancholy turn, even though one 
is indoors, sitting before a pleasant fire, and 
hearing but faintly the sighing of the wind and 
the sound of the rain beating against the win- 
dow. It is hardly to be wondered at that sol- 
diers in trenches become discouraged at times, 
and on this occasion, when an unquenchably 

172 



New Lodgings 

cheerful voice shouted over an adjoining tra- 
verse, — 

"Wot che'r, lads! Are we downhearted?" — 
a growUng chorus answered with an unmis- 
takable, — 

"YES!" 

We were in an open ditch. The rain was 
beating down on our faces. We were waiting 
for darkness when we could go to our unpleas- 
ant work of grave-digging. To-morrow there 
would be more dead bodies and more graves to 
dig, and the day after, the same duty, and the 
day after that, the same. Week after week we 
should be living like this, killing and being 
killed, binding up terrible wounds, digging 
graves, always doing the same work with not 
one bright or pleasant thing to look forward to. 

These were my thoughts as I sat on the fir- 
ing-bench with my head drawn down between 
my knees watching the water dripping from 
the edges of my puttees. But I had forgotten 
one important item in the daily routine : supper. 
And I had forgotten Private Lemley, our 
cook, or, to give him his due, our chef. He was 
not the man to waste his time in gloomy re- 

173 



Kitchener's Mob 

flection. With a dozen mouldy potatoes which 
he had procured Heaven knows where, four 
tins of corned beef, and a canteen Hd filled with 
bacon grease for raw materials, he had set to 
work with the enthusiasm of the born artist, 
the result being rissoles, brown, crisp, and 
piping hot. It is a pleasure to think of that 
meal. Private Lemley was one of the rare 
souls of earth, one of the Mark Tapleys who 
never lost his courage or his good spirits. I 
remember how our spirits rose at the sound of 
his voice, and how gladly and quickly we re- 
sponded to his summons. 

"'Ere you are, me lads! Bully beef rissoles 
an' 'ot tea, an' it ain't 'arf bad fer the trenches 
if I do s'y it." 

I can only wonder now at the keenness of 
our appetites in the midst of the most grue- 
some surroundings. Dead men were lying about 
us, both in the trenches and outside of them. 
And yet our rissoles were not a whit the less 
enjoyable on that account. 

It was quite dark when we had finished. The 
sergeant jumped to his feet. 

"Let's get at it, boys," he said. 

174 



New Lodgings 

Half an hour later we erected a wooden 
cross in Tommy's grave-strewn garden. It 
bore the following inscription written in pencil : 

Pte. # 4326 MacDonald. 
Pte. # 7864 Gardner. 
Pte. #9851 Preston. 
Pte. # 6940 Allen. 
Royal Fusiliers. 
"They did their bit." 

Quietly we slipped back into the trench and 
piled our picks and shovels on the parados. 

"Got yer mouth-organ 'andy, Nobby ? " some 
one asked. 

"She's always 'andy. Wot '11 you 'ave, 
lads?" 

■ "Give us ^Silk 'At Nat Tony.' That's a 
proper funeral 'ymn." 

"Right you are! Sing up, now!" 

And then we sang Tommy's favorite kind 
of requiem : — 

"I'm Silk Hat Nat Tony, 
I'm down and I'm stony: 
I'm not only broke, but I'm bent. 
The fringe of my trousers 
Keeps lashing the houses. 
But still I am gay and content. 

175 



Kitchener's Mob 

I stroll the West gayly, 

You'll see me there daily, 

From Burlington Arcade 

Up to the Old Bailey. 

I'm stony! I'm Tony! 

But that makes no diff'rence, you see. 

Though I have n't a fraction, 

I've this satisfaction, 

They built Piccadilly for me.' 



» 



CHAPTER XI 



"sitting tight" 



I. LEMONS AND CRICKET BALLS 

Throughout October we fulfilled the pro- 
phecy of the officer who told us that "sitting 
tight" in the German trenches was to be our 
function. There were nightly counter-attacks 
preceded by heavy artillery fire, when the 
enemy made determined efforts to retake the 
lost territory. There were needless alarms when 
nervous sentries "got the wind up," to use the 
authentic trench expression, and contagious 
excitement set men to firing like mad into blank 
darkness. In the daytime there were moments 
of calm which we could not savor owing to that 
other warfare waged upon us by increasing 
hordes of parasitic enemies. We moved from 
one position to another through trenches where 
the tangled mass of telephone wires, seemingly 
gifted with a kind of malignant humor, coiled 
themselves about our feet or caught in the pil- 
ing swivels of our rifles. There were orders 

177 



Kitchener's Mob 

and counter-orders, alarums and excursions. 
Through them all Tommy kept his balance and 
his air of cheery unconcern, but he wished that 
he might be "struck pink" if he knew "wot we 
was a-doin' of anyw'y." 

Our ideas of the tactical situation were de- 
cidedly vague. However, we did know, in a 
general way, our position with reference to im- 
portant military landmarks, and the amateur 
strategists were busy at all times explaining the 
situation to frankly ignorant comrades, and 
outlining plans for definite action. 

"Now, if I was General French, I'd make 
'UUuch me main objective. They ain't no 
use tryin' to get by at this part o' the line till 
you got that village." 

"Don't talk so bloomin' ignorant! Ain't tliat 
just wot they been a-tryin' ? Wot we got to do 
IS go 'round 'UUuch. Tyke 'em in the rear an' 
from both sides." 

"W'y don't they get on with it? Wot to 
blazes are we a-doin' of, givin' 'em a chanct 
to get dug in again? 'Ere we all but got 'em 
on the run an' the 'ole show stops!" 

The continuation of the offensive was the 

178 



"Sitting Tight" 



chief topic of conversation. The men dreaded 
it, but they were anxious to get through with 
the business. They beheved that now if ever 
there was the chance to push the Germans out 
of France. 

In the mean time the day's work was still 
the day's work. There were nightly bombing 
affairs, some of them most desperate hand-to- 
hand contests for the possession of small sec- 
tors of trench. One of these I witnessed from 
a trench sixty yards away. The advantage lay 
with us. The enemy held only the center of the 
line and were forced to meet attacks from either 
end. However, they had a communication 
trench connecting with their second line, 
through which carrying parties brought them 
a limitless supply of bombs. 

The game of pitch and toss over the barri- 
cades had continued for several days without 
a decision. Then came orders for more decisive 
action. The barricades were to be destroyed and 
the enemy bombed out. In underground fight- 
ing of this kind the element of surprise is possi- 
ble. If one opponent can be suddenly over- 
whelmed with a heavy rain of bombs, the 

179 



Kitchener's Mob 

chances of success for the attacking party are 
quite favorable. 

The action took place at dusk. Shortly be- 
fore the hour set, the bombers, all of them boys 
in their early twenties, filed slowly along the 
trench, the pockets of their grenade waistcoats 
bulging with "lemons" and "cricket balls," 
as the two most effective kinds of bombs are 
called. They went to their places with that 
spirit of stolid cheeriness which is the won- 
der and admiration of every one who knows 
Tommy Atkins intimately. Formerly, when I 
saw him in this mood, I would think, "He does 
n't realize. Men don't go out to meet death like 
this." But long association with him had con- 
vinced me of the error of this opinion. These 
men knew that death or terrible injury was in 
store for many of them; yet they were talking 
in excited and gleeful undertones, as they might 
have passed through the gates at a football 
match. 

"Are we downhearted .^^ Not likely, old son!" 

"Tyke a feel o' this little puffball ! Smack on 
old Fritzie's napper she goes!" 

" I 'm a-go'n' to arsk fer a nice Blightey one ! 

1 80 



"Sitting Tight" 

Four months in Brentford 'ospital an' me 
Christmas puddin' at 'omel" 

"Now, don't ferget, you blokes! County o' 
London War 'Ospital fer me if I gets a knock! 
Write it on a piece o' pyper an' pin it to me 
tunic w'en you sends me back to the am- 
bulance." 

The barricades were blown up and the fight 
was on. A two-hundred-piece orchestra of 
blacksmiths, with sledgehammers, beating ket- 
tle-drums the size of brewery vats, might have 
approximated, in quality and volume, the sound 
of the battle. The spectacular effect was quite 
different from that of a counter-attack across 
the open. Lurid flashes of light issued from the 
ground as though a door to the infernal regions 
had been thrown jarringly open. The cloud of 
thick smoke was shot through with red gleams. 
Men ran along the parapet hurling bombs down 
into the trench. Now they were hidden by the 
smoke, now silhouetted for an instant against 
a glare of blinding light. 

An hour passed and there was no change in 
the situation. 

"Fritzie 's a tough old bird," said Tommy. 

i8i 



Kitchener's Mob 



*"E's a-go'n' to die game, you got to give it 
to 'Im." 

The excitement was intense. Urgent calls 
for "More lemons! More cricket balls!" were 
sent back constantly. Box after box, each con- 
taining a dozen grenades, was passed up the 
line from hand to hand, and still the call for 
"More bombs!" We couldn't send them up 
fast enough. 

The wounded were coming back in twos and 
threes. One lad, his eyes Covered with a bloody 
bandage, was led by another with a shattered 
hand. 

"Poor old Tich! She went off right in 'is 
face! But you did yer bit, Tich! You ought 
to 'a' seen 'im, you blokes ! Was n't 'e a-lettin' 
'em 'ave it!" 

Another man hobbled past on one foot, sup- 
porting himself against the side of the trench. 
Got a Blightey one," he said gleefully. 

Solong, you lads ! I '11 be with you again arter 
the 'olidays." 

Those who do not know the horrors of mod- 
ern warfare cannot readily understand the 
joy of the soldier at receiving a wound which 

182 



(6 



"Sitting Tight" 

is not likely to prove serious. A bullet in the 
arm or the shoulder, even though it shatters 
the bone, or a piece of shrapnel or shell casing 
in the leg, was always a matter for congratula- 
tion. These were "Blightey wounds." When 
Tommy received one of this kind, he was a can- 
didate for hospital in "Blightey," as England 
is affectionately called. For several months 
he would be far away from the awful turmoil. 
His body would be clean; he would be rid of the 
vermin and sleep comfortably in a bed at night. 
The strain would be relaxed, and, who knows, 
the war might be over before he was again fit 
for active service. And so the less seriously 
wounded made their way painfully but cheer- 
fully along the trench, on their way to the field 
dressing-station, the motor ambulance, the 
hospital ship, and — home! while their un- 
wounded comrades gave them words of en- 
couragement and good cheer. 

"Good luck to you, Sammy boy! If you 
sees my missus, tell 'er I 'm as right as rain!" 

"Sammy, you lucky blighter! Wen yer 
convalescin', 'ave a pint of ale at the W'ite 
Lion fer me." 

183 



Kitchener's Mob 

"An' a good feed o' fish an' chips fer me, 
Sammy. Mind yer foot! There's a 'ole just 
'ere!" 

"'Ere comes old Sid! Were you caught it, 
mate?" 

" In me bloomin' shoulder. It ain't ^arf givin' 
it to me!" 

"Never you mind, Sid! Blightey fer you, 
boy!" 

"Hi, Sid! Tell me old lady I'm still up an' 
comin', will you? You know w'ere she lives, 
forty-six Bromley Road." 

One lad, his nerve gone, pushed his way 
frantically down the trench. He had "funked 
it." He was hysterical with fright and crying 
in a dry, shaking voice, — 

"It's too 'orrible! I can't stand it! Blow 
you to 'ell they do! Look at me! I'm slathered 
in blood! I can't stand it! They ain't no man 
can stand it!" 

He met with scant courtesy. A trench 
during an attack is no place for the faint- 
hearted. An unsympathetic Tommy kicked 
him savagely. 

"Go 'ide yerself, you bloody little coward!" 

184 



« Sitting Tight " 

"More lemons! More cricket balls!" and at 
last, Victory! Fritzie had "chucked it," and 
men of the Royal Engineers, that wonderfully 
efficient corps, were on the spot with picks 
and shovels and sandbags, clearing out the 
wreckage, and building a new barricade at the 
farther end of the communication trench. 

It was only a minor affair, one of many which 
take place nightly in the firing-line. Twoscore 
yards of trench were captured. The cost was, 
perhaps, one man per yard; but as Tommy 
said, — 

"It ain't the trench wot counts. It's the 
more-ale. Bucks the blokes up to win, an' that's 
worth a 'ole bloomin' army corps." 

II. " GO IT, THE NORFOLKS!" 

Rumors of all degrees of absurdity reached 
us. The enemy was massing on our right, on 
our left, on our immediate front. The division 
was to attack at dawn under cover of a hundred 
bomb-dropping battle-planes. Units of the new 
armies to the number of five hundred thousand 
were concentrating behind the line from La 
Bassee to Arras, and another tremendous drive 

i8s 



Kitchener's Mob 

was to be made in conjunction with the French, 
(As a matter of fact, we knew less of what was 
actually happening than did people in England 
and America.) Most of these reports sprang, 
full grown, from the fertile brains of officers' 
servants. Scraps of information which they 
gathered while in attendance at the officers' 
mess dugout were pieced together, and much 
new material of their own invention added. The 
striving was for piquancy rather than plausi- 
bility. A wild tale was always better than a dull 
one; furthermore the "batmen" were our only 
sources of official information, and could always 
command a hearing. When one of them came 
down the trench with that mysterious "I-could- 
a-tale-unfold " air, he was certain to be halted 
by willingly gullible comrades. 

"Wot's up, Jerry? Anything new?" 
"Nor 'arf! Now, keep this under yer 'ats, 
you blokes ! My gov'nor was a-talkin' to Major 
Bradley this mornin' w'ile I was a-mykin' 'is 
tea, an' '^ says — " 

Then followed the thrilling narrative, a dis- 
closure of official secrets while groups of war- 
worn Tommies listened with eager interest. 

i86 



« Sitting Tight " 

"Spreading the News" was a tragi-comedy 
enacted daily in the trenches. 

But we were not entirely in the dark. The 
signs which preceded an engagement were un- 
mistakable, and toward the middle of October 
there was general agreement that an important 
action was about to take place. British aircraft 
had been patrolling our front ceaselessly for 
hours. Several battalions (including our own 
which had just gone into reserve at Vermelles) 
were placed on bomb-carrying fatigue. As we 
went up to the firing-line with our first load, 
we found all of the support trenches filled to 
overflowing with troops in fighting order. 

We reached the first line as the preliminary 
bombardment started. Scores of batteries were 
concentrating their fire on the enemy's trenches 
directly opposite us. It is useless to attempt to 
depict what lay before us as we looked over the 
parapet. The trenches were hidden from view 
in a cloud of smoke and flame and dirt. The 
earth was like a muddy sea dashed high in 
spray against hidden rocks. 

The men who were to lead the attack were 
standing rifle in hand, waiting for the sudden 

1B7 



Kitchener's Mob 

cessation of fire which would be the signal for 
them to mount the parapet. * Bombers and 
bayonet-men alternated in series of two. The 
bombers wore their mediaeval-looking shrapnel- 
proof helmets and heavy canvas grenade coats 
with twelve pockets sagging with bombs. Their 
rifles were slung on their backs to give them free 
use of their hands. 

Every one was smoking — some calmly, some 
with short, nervous puffs. It was interesting 
to watch the faces of the men. One could read, 
almost to a certainty, what was going on in their 
minds. Some of them were thinking of the ter- 
rible events so near at hand. They were imagin- 
ing the horrors of the attack in detail. Others 
were unconcernedly intent upon adjusting 
straps of their equipment, or in rubbing their 
clips of ammunition with an oily rag. Several 
men were singing to a mouth-organ accompani- 
ment. I saw their lips moving, but not a sound 
reached me above the din of the guns, although 
I was standing only a few yards distant. It 
was like an absurd pantomime. 

As I watched them, the sense of the unreality 
of the whole thing swept over me more strongly 

i88 



« Sitting Tight " 

than ever before. "This can't be true," I thought; 
"I have never been a soldier. There is n't any 
European war." I had the curious feeHng that 
my body and brain were functioning quite 
apart from me. I was only a slow-witted, in- 
credulous spectator looking on with a stupid 
animal wonder. I have learned that this feel- 
ing is quite common among men in the trenches. 
A part of the mind works normally, and another 
part, which seems to be one's essential self, 
refuses to assimilate and classify experiences so 
unusual, so different from anything in the cata- 
logue of memory. 

For two hours and a half the roar of guns 
continued. Then it stopped as suddenly as it 
had begun. An officer near me shouted, "Now, 
men! Follow me!" and clambered over the 
parapet. There was no hesitation. In a mo- 
ment the trench was empty save for the bomb- 
carrying parties and an artillery observation 
officer, who was jumping up and down on the 
firing-bench, shouting — 

"Go it, the Norfolks! Go it, the N or j oiks I 
My God! Is n't it fine! Is n't it splendid!" 

There you have the British officer true to 

189 



Kitchener's Mob 

type. He is a sportsman : next to taking part 
in a fight he loves to see one — and he says 
"is n't" not "ain't," even under stress of the 
greatest excitement. 

The German artillery, which had been re- 
serving fire, now poured forth a deluge of 
shrapnel. The sound of rifle fire' was scattered 
a^d ragged at first, but it increased steadily 
in volume. Then came the "boiler-factory 
chorus," the sharp rattle of dozens of machine 
guns. The bullets were flying over our heads 
like swarms of angry wasps. A ration-box board 
which I held above the parapet was struck al- 
most immediately. Fortunately for the artil- 
lery officer, a disrespectful N.C.O. pulled him 
down into the trench. 

"It's no use throwin' yer life aw'y, sir. You 
won't 'elp 'em over by barkin' at 'em." 

He was up again almost at once, coolly 
watching the progress of the troops from behind 
a small barricade of sandbags, and reporting 
upon it to batteries several miles in rear. 
The temptation to Jook over the parapet was 
not to be resisted. The artillery lengthened 
their ranges. I saw the curtain of flame-shot 

190 



"Sitting Tight" 



smoke leap at a bound to the next line of Ger- 
man trenches. 

Within a few moments several lines of re- 
serves filed into the front trench and went over 
the parapet in support of the first line, ad- 
vancing with heads down like men bucking into 
the fury of a gale. We saw them only for an 
instant as they jumped to their feet outside the 
trench and rushed forward. Many were hit 
before they had passed through the gaps in our 
barbed wire. Those who were able crept back 
and were helped into the trench by comrades. 
One man was killed as he was about to reach 
a place of safety. He lay on the parapet with 
his head and arms hanging down inside the 
trench. His face was that of a boy of twenty- 
one or twenty-two. I carry the memory of it 
with me to-day as vividly as when I left the 
trenches in November. 

Following the attacking infantry were those 
other soldiers whose work, though less spec- 
tacular than that of the riflemen, was just as 
essential and quite as dangerous. Royal Engi- 
neers, with picks and shovels and sandbags, 
rushed forward to reverse the parapets of the 

191 



Kitchener's Mob 

captured trenches, and to clear out the wreck- 
age, while the riflemen waited for the launching 
of the first counter-attack. They were preceded 
by men of the Signaling Corps, who advanced 
swiftly and skillfully, unwinding spools of in- 
sulated telephone wire as they went. Bomb- 
carriers, stretcher-bearers, intent upon their 
widely divergent duties, followed. The work of 
salvage and destruction went hand in hand. 

The battle continued until evening, when 
we received orders to move up to the firing-line. 
We started at five o'clock, and although we 
had less than three miles to go, we did not 
reach the end of our journey until four the next 
morning, owing to the fatigue parties and the 
long stream of wounded which blocked the com- 
munication trenches. For more than an hour 
we lay just outside of the trench looking down 
on a seemingly endless procession of casualties. 
Some of the men were crying like children, some 
groaning pitifully, some laughing despite their 
wounds. I heard dialects peculiar to every part 
of England, and fragmentary accounts of hair- 
breadth escapes and desperate fighting. 

^*They was a big Dutchman comin' at me 

192 



« Sitting Tight" 

from the other side. Lucky fer me that I 'ad a 
round in me breach. He 'd 'a' got me if it 'ad n't 
'a' been fer that ca'tridge. I let 'im 'ave it an' 
'e crumpled up like a wet blanket." 

"Seeven of them, an' that dazed like, they 
wasna good for onything. Mon, it would ha' 
been fair murder to kill 'em! They wasna 
wantin' to fight." 

Boys scarcely out of their 'teens talked with 
the air of old veterans. Many of them had been 
given their first taste of real fighting, and they 
were experiencing a very common and natural 
reaction. Their courage had been put to the 
most severe test and had not given way. It was 
not difficult to understand their elation, and one 
could forgive their boastful talk of bloody deeds. 
One highly strung lad was dangerously near to 
nervous breakdown. He had bayoneted his 
first German and could not forget the experi- 
ence. He told of it over and over as the line 
moved slowly along. 

"I could n't get me bayonet out," he said. 
"Wen 'e fell 'e pulled me over on top of 'im. 
I 'ad to put me foot against 'im an' pull, an' 
then it came out with a jerk." 

193 



Kitchener's Mob 

We met small groups of prisoners under es- 
cort of proud and happy Tommies who gave us 
conflicting reports of the success of the attack. 
Some of them said that two more lines of Ger- 
man trenches had been taken; others declared 
that we had broken completely through and that 
the enemy were in full retreat. Upon arriving 
at our position, we were convinced that at least 
one trench had been captured; but when we 
mounted our guns and peered cautiously over 
the parapet, the lights which we saw in the 
distance were the flashes of German rifles, not 
the street lamps of Berlin. 

III. CHRISTIAN PRACTICE 

Meanwhile, the inhumanity of a war without 
truces was being revealed to us on every hand. 
Hundreds of bodies were lying between the 
opposing lines of trenches and there was no 
chance to bury them. Fatigue parties were 
sent out at night to dispose of those which were 
lying close to the parapets, but the work was 
constantly delayed and interrupted by persis- 
tent sniping and heavy shell fire. Others farther 
out lay where they had fallen day after day and 

'194 



"Sitting Tight" 



week after week. Many an anxious mother in 
England was seeking news of a son whose body 
had become a part of that Flemish landscape. 

During the week following the commence- 
ment of the offensive, the wounded were 
brought back in twos and threes from the con- 
tested area over which attacks and counter- 
attacks were taking place. One plucky English- 
man was discovered about fifty yards in front 
of our trenches. He was waving a handkerchief 
tied to the handle of his intrenching tool. 
Stretcher-bearers ran out under fire and brought 
him in. He had been wounded in the foot when 
his company were advancing up the slope fifteen 
hundred yards away. When it was found neces- 
sary to retire, he had been left with many dead 
and wounded comrades, far from the possibility 
of help by friends. He had bandaged his wound 
with his first-aid field dressing, and started 
crawling back, a few yards at a time. He se- 
cured food from the haversacks of dead com- 
rades, and at length, after a week of painful 
creeping, reached our lines. 

Another of our comrades was discovered by 
a listening patrol, six days after he had been 

195 



Kitchener's Mob 

wounded. He, too, had been struck down close 
to the enemy's second Hne. Two kind-hearted 
German sentries, to whom he had signaled, 
crept out at night and gave him hot coffee to 
drink. He begged them to carry him in, but 
they told him they were forbidden to take any 
wounded prisoners. As he was unable to crawl, 
he must have died had it not been for the keen 
ears of the men of the listening patrol. A third 
victim whom I saw was brought in at daybreak 
by a working party. He had been shot in the 
jaw and lay unattended through at least five 
wet October days and nights. His eyes were 
swollen shut. Blood-poisoning had set in from 
a wound which would certainly not have been 
fatal could it have received early attention. 

We knew that there must be many wounded 
still alive in the tall grass between our lines. 
We knew that many were dying who might be 
saved. The Red Cross Corps made nightly 
searches for them, but the difficulties to be 
overcome were great. The volume of fire in- 
creased tremendously at night. Furthermore, 
there was a wide area to be searched, and in the 
darkness men lying unconscious, or too weak 

196 



« Sitting Tight " 

from the loss of blood to groan or shout, were 
discovered only by accident. 

Tommy Atkins is n't an advocate of "peace 
at any price," but the sight of awful and need- 
less suffering invariably moved him to declare 
himself emphatically against the inhuman 
practices in war of so-called Christian nations. 

"Christian nations!" he would say scorn- 
fully. " If this 'ere is a sample o' Christianity, 
I'll tyke me charnces down below w'en I gets 
knocked out." His comrades greeted such 
outbursts with hearty approval. 

"I'm with you there, mate! 'Ell won't be 
such a dusty old place if all the Christians go 
upstairs." 

"They ain't no God 'avin' anything to do 
with this war, I 'm telling you ! All the religious 
blokes in England an' France an' Germany 
ain't a-go'n' to pray 'Im into it!" 

I am not in a position to speak for Hans and 
Fritz, who faced us from the other side of No- 
Man's-Land; but as for Tommy, it seemed to 
me that he had a higher opinion of the Deity 
than many of his better-educated countrymen 
at home. 

197 



Kitchener's Mob 



IV. TOMMY 

By the end of the month we had seen more of 
suffering and death than it is good for men to 
see in a lifetime. There were attacks and coun- 
ter-attacks, hand-to-hand fights in communi- 
cation trenches with bombs and bayonets, 
heavy bombardments, nightly burial parties. 
Tommy Atkins looked like a beast. His cloth- 
ing was a hardened-mud casing; his body was 
the color of the sticky Flanders clay in which 
he lived; but his soul was clean and fine. I saw 
him rescuing wounded comrades, tending them 
in the trenches, encouraging them and hearten- 
ing them when he himself was discouraged and 
sick at heart. 

"You're a-go'n' 'ome, 'Arry! Blimy! think 
o' that! Back to old Blightey w'ile the rest 
of us 'as got to stick it out 'ere! Don't I wish 
I was you! Not 'arf!" 

"You ain't bad 'urt! Strike me pink ! You'll 
be as keen as a w'istle in a couple o' months. 
An"ere! Christmas in Blightey, son ! S'y! I'll 
tyke yer busted shoulder if you '11 give me the 
chanct!" 

198 



"Sitting Tight" 



<(> 



'They ain't nothin' they can't do fer you 
back at the base 'ospital. 'Member 'ow they 
fixed old Ginger up ? You ain't caught it 'arf 
as bad!" 

In England, before I knew him for the man 
he is, I said, "How am I to endure living with 
him?" And now I am thinking, how am I to 
endure living without him; without the inspira- 
tion of his splendid courage; without the visible 
example of his unselfish devotion to his fellows ? 
There were a few cowards and shirkers who 
failed to live up to the standard set by their 
comrades. I remember the man of thirty-five 
or forty who lay whimpering in the trench when 
there was unpleasant work to be done, while 
boys half his age kicked him in a vain at- 
tempt to waken him to a sense of duty; but 
instances of this kind were rare. There were 
not enough of them to serve as a foil to the 
shining deeds which were of daily and hourly 
occurrence. 

Tommy is sick of the war — dead sick of it. 
He is weary of the interminable procession of 
comfortless nights and days. He is weary of 
the sight of maimed and bleeding men — of the 

199 



Kitchener's Mob 

awful suspense of waiting for death. In the 
words of his pathetic Httle song, he does "want 
to go 'ome." But there is that within him which 
says, "Hold on!" He is a compound of cheery- 
optimism and grim tenacity which makes him 
an incomparable fighting man. 

The intimate picture of him which lingers 
most willingly in my mind is that which I car- 
ried with me from the trenches on the dreary 
November evening shortly before I bade him 
good-bye. It had been raining and sleeting for 
a week. The trenches were knee-deep in water, 
in some places waist-deep, for the ground was 
as level as a floor and there was no possibility 
of drainage. We were wet through and our 
legs were numb with the cold. Near our gun 
position there was a hole in the floor of the 
trench where the water had collected in a deep 
pool. A bridge of boards had been built around 
one side of this, but in the darkness a passer-by 
slipped and fell into the icy water nearly up to 
his arm-pits. 

"Now, then, matey!" said an exasperating 
voice, "bathin' in our private pool without a 
permit?", 

200 



« Sitting Tight " 

And another, " 'Ere, son ! This ain't a swim- 
min' bawth! That's our tea water yer a-stand- 
in in! 

The Tommy in the pool must have been 
nearly frozen, but for a moment he made no 
attempt to get out. 

"One o' you fetch me a bit o' soap, will you ? " 
he said coaxingly. "You ain't a-go'n' to talk 
about tea water to a bloke wot ain't 'ad a bawth 
in seven weeks?" 

It is men of this stamp who have the for- 
tunes of England in their keeping. And they 
are called, "The Boys of the Bulldog Breed." 



THE END 



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